“Goodbye, Marigold,” Trystan conceded lightly, with a wave. But – September eighth. Trystan mentally marked her daughter’s birthday in his head with the same gravity and concentration he had once been accustomed to in his former career, tracking dark wizards and taking note of every important detail in a case. Sometime in January would have to do for her mother’s birthday; he would be prepared for the start of the month, if he thought of it then. There was always the possibility his interest in this prickly almost-stranger may have waned by then...

Except then she tried and failed to make her abrupt getaway, and her hand landed on his shoulder. This felt like an unplanned victory; she was far closer to him currently than he imagined she wanted to be; and now Trystan was sure that he wouldn’t lose interest in her until he figured her out. “Careful there,” he joked, with a pleased laugh rumbling in his chest, “or your quick escape might get you into more trouble.” He might have been speaking to Marigold or Mrs. Davenport, but it was the latter he was looking at now, as he planted his hand atop hers on his shoulder – to help steady her – and stood up again, to make the most of their sudden proximity and also to observe her close up, what he presumed were the metamorphagus’ natural features.

“You’re always in a hurry, aren’t you?” Trystan remarked quietly. Always working, perhaps – trying to support her daughter alone? – or just always running from something?

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