Kostos doesn't have a problem with magical healing. That's less obvious a statement than it probably should be, for a mage. He has a problem with a lot of magic. But healers have reversed the shattering of his ribs and knitted his skin back together when his guts were threatening to spill, and—for at least as long as he doesn't find out some of the more interesting secrets about Isaac—it's an art he's never known to hurt anyone. If he were bleeding, he might pass Sidony over for a mage, cousin or not.

But he isn't bleeding. He's holding a bundle, wrapped in a sheet—child-sized and child-shaped, but quiet and still. Like a dead child. Because that's what it is. But he's Nevarran, so, you know, it's fine. Clearly.

So it's Sidony he carries his bundle to. No greeting, no do you have a moment to spare. "She has a loose stitch," he says.

Up close, the bundle is less still than it seemed from a distance: not breathing, but under the sheet, the corpse's fingers are moving, one at a time, as if playing a piano.