He thinks better than to ask whether the attendants were human, and whether they were paid. Let his thrice-great grandmother strike him down. It won't be like it was. Benedict, at least, isn't going back to that life. It coils unspoken in the space above his tongue: Nothing will be like it was, but some of it, some of it probably will be.

(The Circles. If they've seen anything of this war, it's the consequence of magic unrestrained. It won't be them who decides it, but —

His hand curls about the anchor. If they live to see it, it'll both of them that do.)

"Y'ever make plans for after?"

The world doesn’t stop turning just because you're closed off. Maybe this is the problem, part of it: They still have to work together. That's easier, among friends.