"On behalf of other things," he says, turning the shirt slowly between his hands. Not folding it, just handling it. Thumbs shifting across the knots embroidered in neat repeating rows at the collar. "But not that."

The scorch mark left by the abomination had lingered at the apex of the dining hall's ceiling for far longer than the other damage had. The ruined walls had been patched and plastered. The floors had been stripped and resealed. The broken furniture cleared away and replaced by pieces scavenged from the unused parallel hall. But that black mark. The massive thumb print of a dead man ground in above all their heads—

A small gesture. The shirt is at last relinquished to the floor.

"I know who you are."