Arthur's chest constricted. Not because of the name, Dionisia Fisk — other than a vague knowledge of Fisks it did not mean anything to him — but because of what it represented. If Ben died tomorrow, if, Art was going to be responsible for reaching out to this woman, and he was not going to be able to, full stop. It was the cowardly thing and he knew it, but he wouldn't be able to. He took another step back, and wished he had a tree to lean on — something that could put pressure on him and make all of this feel less high-stakes.

"Valerian?" Art said, as if he'd ever clarified, catching on Ben's voice again and not knowing what to say, "Yeah, yeah he's good." And Art was going to have to get him to do it, that was another thing he'd have to do today — talk to Valerian and go to practice and write Selwyn and try to make some money and just everything, it all felt impossible, he could not possibly have enough time to do it.

Fucking November Crouch, why couldn't this all just be Macmillan talking shit, and never mind the duel itself, Art was not convinced he would make it to tomorrow at all.

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