He had begun to see her as a slave. Holding to the letter of their agreement, he had nonetheless allowed her to pour his tea, serve his dinner, announce his guests. And all the years they have known each other, he or Lucius could have slit her throat to power their spells. He watches her now, fixed and focused on half a thought that becomes a whole thought.

"Help me?" That had been his plea at the beginning. That's been his problem all along, trying to help himself in the name of survival, paring bits of himself away every day instead of wondering whether he should be here at all. "No. Tell me how to help you. I won't, I won't wait around for Lucius to do that to you."