"Marlena," Kieran echoed, stressing the second syllable. He would get there eventually, he thought — he usually was there, except when he was running late to an appointment he couldn't avoid. He corked the inkpot and frowned at the table; he could ignore the ink dripping off of it, but he couldn't drop an inkpot with wet ink into his bag with his books and his notes. He drew his wand and muttered a spell to vanish the ink — a waste of money, but he didn't have time to try to magic it back into the inkwell.

"I'm great," Kieran said, thumbing around the edge of the inkwell to see if there was still wet on it. His thumb came away black. Fuck. "Little hungover, but —" he shrugged.

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