Bastien is wearing a shirt. Not his own shirt, nor anyone's new shirt; it's too big for him, rolled-up sleeves refusing to stay rolled, and there were oily smudges and a split seam before he added all the soot. But a shirt, definitely. Even though the shoveling warmed him up enough that now, sitting on a stone table to watch Jayce complete the business of testing everything and lighting the fire, he's flapping the shirt-front to fan it out a bit.

When the flame catches, he stops fanning to clap instead.

"I would have been furious if that was all for nothing," he says, as if he'd ever let anyone know if he were in fact furious about anything. Though—"it's not, right? This means everything works?"