He had not come here for this.

He had intended merely to make sure that it was truly her, that she hadn't died or fallen into prostitution in the years since their shared trauma—a trauma that, ultimately, he carried the guilt for, for she was his pupil, under his charge. Seeing her, hearing her, though, had tripped something within the wizard, something that, once free, shackled his better judgement up in a corner.

"If you ever decide that all of this—" he gestured with a sardonic smile "—is not enough for you, come to Fingersmith Alley, ask around for Westerman. I may be rusty, as instruction goes, but I still have knowledge left to share." The accident had taken a great many things, but it hadn't taken that.