It was late, but the door to the print shop opened — Declan looked up from his seat on the stool by the door, dog-eared his book, and smiled.

"Saffron," Deck said, waving one ink-stained hand at her. He was just about done with work — once this invitation finished printing, he just had to put it in a small box for pickup tomorrow. She seemed like she was going to have a moment, though — he remembered, belatedly, where she had been all day. "Quidditch?"