Eira stared at him for a beat.
Then, softly: "That's deliciously cruel, Master."
"I learned from a good fairy."
He turned back to Jonathan.
"Come here."
The man did not rise.
He crawled.
Forehead still low, hands still spread, Jonathan Montgomery dragged himself forward across the ruined carpet on his elbows and knees — a slow, painful scrape over broken crystal and drying piss, each inch costing him something no account could measure.
He arrived at Phei's feet. Pressed his forehead to the leather of Phei's shoe. Held it there.
Phei looked down at him without expression.
"Eira. Heal him more than he already is, back to the way he was before any of this started."
"The original Jonathan? Pre-beating, pre-torture, pre-breakfast-shouting-at-Roxanne? That Jonathan?"
"That one and only. Every detail. He needs to walk into his next meeting looking exactly like the man they expect."
