Benedict could be anywhere, so long as it’s somewhere settled, sitting or working, with the air of someone who intends not to move right away.

And while he’s there, Bastien appears briefly in his line of sight, points at him with a simultaneous finger-snap, ah-ha, and walks away.

Several minutes later, though he’s back with an armful of paper, neatly stacked and separated by blank broadsheets. “I keep forgetting,” he says without preamble, “because of—you know. The war.”