It takes Alistair some time to emerge from Nathaniel and Anders' shared house, but when he does his eyes are dry and hollow and it would take particular attention to detail to notice the occasional shakiness of his hands. He's fine. This isn't his tragedy. It's Nathaniel's, and Anders', and there are things that need to be done.

Teren isn't the first person he sees, but she is the first person he stops for, halting suddenly. He's been avoiding her—all of them, keeping his gaze averted like someone with a weaker stomach avoiding the sight of an open wound—and for a moment he almost looks like he doesn't recognize her or has forgotten that she was there.

He rubs his mouth. Looks her head to toe. He's thirty-seven now, but he still manages to look a little bit like a sullen and distrustful child.

Still: "Nathaniel is dead. I need a hand."