Art was hopeful, for a second, that Ben would let him call it off — but then Ben said he promised, and for all that Ben's sister did not really matter to Art in the scheme of things, that mattered, Ben had promised, it was about her honor. Fuck. Art should have taken Selwyn's bribe, should have promised to lie, should have — never brought up Macmillan to Ben in a letter in the first place.

He couldn't let Ben duel when Ben looked like this, but how the fuck was he supposed to stop him? He couldn't, not when November Crouch was at risk of ruin, not when there was something real to this stupid flirtation, not when he couldn't get his head on straight long enough to stop ruining his own life. There had to be a way out, but Art couldn't see it — or, what he was thinking of was nearly as terrifying as the duel itself.

"What do you need me to do?" Art asked, a little desperate; he was at the end of his rope but he could manage this, surely, whatever needed to happen, whatever Ben needed him to be. He could write to Valerian or he could find another healer or he could — he could find some way to prevent Macmillan from getting to Ireland, surely, for all that that was nearly as frightening of a prospect as the rest of it.

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