Palamedes might not mean nothing invasive as something soothing, but Darlington's reassured by it regardless. And intrigued, not least by the fact he describes his idea as logistically complicated, a phrase that back home might've meant anything from the brewing of the Bullet to the first Aurelian rite he'd attended his sophomore year, a twelve-hour odyssey of legal terms and tightening of loopholes. "Of course," he says. "Just let me know what you need when it's time. And any specifics you'd care to share before or after."

Black Elm held magic enough for him, and had his whole life, but that was a thing born of history and nostalgia; a different kind of enchantment than whatever the other man might be planning, but just as important.

Picking up his mug, he follows Palamedes as the kettle begins to whistle, a smile crossing his face at the dramatic accuracy of the descriptor he uses. "They get both more and less eerie-sounding from there," he says. "Hell, I'd probably put the Locksmiths pretty squarely in the middle." He pauses, considering the best place to start, knowing already how different the other man's world is from his. "On the surface, the Ancient Eight are a collection of elite organizations at Yale, the college I was attending before I came here. Secret clubs with powerful and successful lists of alumni--presidents, businessmen, authors and journalists, celebrities. And they are, very much so, but from their first days they also each built themselves around the study and practice of a particular kind of magic."