Seating himself, Marcus fetches at the edge of his folded coat to get at the pocket, listening as he does so. A look slid to Cosima—quiet, dry acknowledgment of their current roles as goat race enthusiast replacements—as he takes out a copper cigarette case, thumbing it open.

"I prefer it to the cockfights," should, by rights, be a joke about the state of work meetings, but if it is, it's delivered like it isn't one. An observation. The goats seem unabused.

The cigarettes within the case are wrapped in tightly pressed brown leaf, and when lit with a pinch of his fingertips and minor enough magic that it hardly needs more than a thought, the smoke it emits is sharp, a little cheap. Times are hard.

"Flint's office was in good order. Most things left undone weren't urgent."