Theo, in the tower’s small kitchen, found the mint infusion he generally used when he’d given himself a headache from glaring at hexed manuscripts or careless students, touched the stove and brought heat to life, and set about assembling tea. If he kept his hands moving he wouldn’t have to think about Captain Tourmaline’s evident frailty, or the man’s offer to come and assist despite that, or the sound of his voice saying yes, Theo with quite astonishing acquiescence.
Captain Tourmaline—no, Henry; they’d established as much—looked as if getting up from the sofa might require herculean effort. Theo would never ask that of him. The man was a war hero, or something. A survivor, at least. When so many of England’s magicians hadn’t.
He found and sliced some bread, and some cheese, and a few s
