And the heart has become so tired, and the longing so vast.
—Rainer Maria Rilke

He should have known. Indeed he had known, and had pushed away the knowledge that his partner was completely insane.

When Alan tried to stop the killing, Eric had punched him to the ground, too crazed to recognize whom he was hitting. When Alan moved to protect the Phantomhive child, Eric had simply slashed through him.

It was his own denial that killed him.

Oh. Ow.

Wait—where? Bright white light, blinding after a long darkness.

Up, dammit. Sit up. A—wall? Brace against it. Face outwards, alert for danger.

Shouldn't this hurt more? A deep breath with no pain. Stiff and sore, but no knives in his chest. Under his sleeves, he felt no scars on his arms.

Had the fairy tale been based in truth? Nine hundred ninety-nine innocent souls, and Eric shouting that he needed one more. Would the demon-sworn boy have qualified? Not bloody likely. Was the thousandth soul himself—a Reaper, condemned for the sin of suicide?

Perhaps purity of soul could also mean being broken and carrying on anyway. Kintsugi.

He reached out without thinking; his scythe snapped into his hand. He used it to stand, sliding his back up the wall and waiting for the dizziness to pass. He was whole, healthy, rested, no more dead than any other active Reaper, and armed. His memories had not been erased. Therefore the Higher Ups had a use for him. He felt his breast pocket and found his glasses. It would appear that the Dispatch was in need of trained people. Perhaps the Academy wasn't turning the students out fast enough. Perhaps the situation was beyond inexperienced graduates.

He put on his glasses. Ah. The Library. That made sense. After Eric had killed him, he had been collected like any other soul and filed away. But Eric? Probably killed soon after. He'd been wounded, exhausted, mad as two spoons, and the demon was at full strength. Please God, Eric had also been collected, rather than devoured, damned or discarded.

There were others, blurs in the light. Eric was not one of them. He heard groans, curses and one phrase that told him a great deal—"Oh, blast, not again!"

If collected Reapers were being hauled out of storage (repeatedly?), then circumstances must be grim indeed. War, plague, a demon uprising. Probably a combination. First things first. Food, coffee, and orientation. What year was it? Were there new rules and regulations—of course there were, Dispatch was the ultimate bureaucracy.

If short skinny makeweights like himself were being recalled, then large muscular bullyboys were probably already back in harness. Or, to look at it another way, if the swots were being recalled then brute force hadn't been enough to fix the problem. Oh, dear. Not good at all.

Time to leave, right now before some flunky came to retrieve them. He couldn't trust that newly awakened Reapers wouldn't just be handed a List and sent off blind.

The Cafeteria was full of black suits. Good. Alan was expert at disappearing in crowds. He needed time to steady himself, to learn what the hell was going on. Also hot food and coffee. He settled his tray in a corner ohmygoodnesscaffeine, yesyesfood.

For a few minutes there was nothing but food and drink. When he was able to pause, he quickly scanned the room. First, no Slingby. He put aside his worry. Second. Nobody he recognized. Third. These were not happy people. Weary, stressed, disheveled. Injuries. Not much joking, tense conversation, little relaxation. A Reaper was distributing papers to a small group who looked tidy but confused; newly restored like himself?

He shifted minutely, adjusting his stance and aura from "nobody here" to "faceless drone supposed to be here," with a touch of "able to add to your workload."

He listened. He learned. Merciful Heavens. Thirty years. Hell had been out for lunch for the last four. Literally.

He needed to find someone he knew, someone informed, someone who would not send him straight into battle without the knowledge or equipment he needed to function. He checked his watch against the wall clock; break time for the day shift. Interesting that scythe and watch had been restored, but none of his fallback weapons. He'd need to pick up some serviceable blades and see what new developments might be available. Also he needed a bit of privacy in a location where he could run through some training exercises. This new body might not have the strength and coordination he expected, and clumsiness was a killer.

Had everyone he had known been promoted, transferred, consumed, collected? Who might still be around? Someone in a safe desk job, senior and at the top of his promotion ladder? Someone who might listen before issuing an order that could not be disobeyed?

Pops Anderson of Spectacles.

"Your prescription is still good. Frames are slightly bent. Try not to lead with your face, sir. Yes, retired Reapers worldwide are being returned to active duty. We weren't exactly caught flat-footed, but the human world exploded into war; not just a couple of countries but whole continents. Hell is open and the demons are feasting. Let me polish out these scratches...

"So, the usual problems. Untrained troops issued faulty weapons with ammunition the wrong size. Horrible casualties among troops badly led. Old strategies failing in the face of new weapons. Revolution in repressive states. All on a scale not seen before. The local Reaper branches of Europe completely overwhelmed and calling for any help possible. Most Reapers are now being assigned to follow armies, rather than patrol specific territories. Time to replace these hinge screws...

"Masses of soldiers in huge camps with inadequate sanitation and medical staff. There is a nasty new disease which is contagious before the carrier is seen to be sick. Exposed soldiers being shipped worldwide. Sick prisoners being taken into healthy army camps. As many dying in bed as in battle.

"Try these on now; bend forward and shake your head; good. Those won't be easily dislodged in a fight. And fight you will, sir. Demons are preying in groups. Experienced seniors are being given teams of inexperienced juniors. The youngsters Reap. You'll be protecting them from the demons. Good luck.

"Wounded soldiers are being sent home, carrying the new disease into the civilian population. A few humans are beginning to figure out germ theory but most still believe in miasma as the cause of illness. The scientific division is predicting a pandemic. Given world-wide shipping and trade, the disease will spread even into remote areas not affected by troop movements. Could kill more than the war will.

"Spears? Good man. In France since 1915, directing all British reapers in that country. Ronald Knox has replaced him here. Doing well. Grell Sutcliff is leading a cadre of demon fighters along the Western Front. Very successful. Slingby—let me check my records. Ah, that's right. Tinted lenses, after a temporary blindness following exposure to angelfire. Last seen in 1884.

"Now, young man, that only means that he has had no trouble with his spectacles. If he were previously Collected, it's quite probable that he has been returned to active duty. If I were Spears, presented with an aggressive demon-hating Reaper of great experience but questionable sanity, where would I place him? With Sutcliff.

"Right. Off you go. Report to Knox. That's an order, so if Recruitment tries to gather you up for transfer, refer them to me. I think you need to connect with a friend before the war catches up with you."

Physically, Reapers aged very slowly or not at all. Nevertheless, Ronald Knox had settled into manhood. His gait, posture and expression spoke of a hard-won maturity. A slight limp indicated that he had seen active service. He filled Spears' office with an air of competence and made the room his own.

"Alan! Good to see you. They told me you were being recalled. I figured you'd show up here in your own good time. Let me offer you tea, both for courtesy and because I need it. We've just dealt with an explosion in a munitions factory. Good practice for my trainees, and an opportunity for recovering invalids to tell tall tales.

"Afraid that's all you'll find here; any healthy person with a year of experience is shipped off to war. I've senior staff so shaken that they fall apart if confronted with anything but paperwork, so the duties have been realigned accordingly. Them as can, Reap. Them as can't, type and file. Those who are unable to deal with even that get swept over to other departments, whose able-bodied men are with the troops. We've a storage closet set aside for anyone who just needs to scream for a bit. South hall, second left.

"I remember that you liked to carry hideaways at ankle, vest, and the back of the neck. I have four for you, the latest knives fresh from Scythes, shorter than the ones you are used to because the blades are hidden. Schrade-design switchblades. Press this—open. Close—so. Ankle sheath, wrist clip, neck harness, have fun with 'em."

Oh, these were nice. Alan stashed one in an inner pocket immediately. While he fitted wrist straps, he gathered his courage. "Ronald, do you know what became of Eric? I know Spears condemned him, but I died before—"

Knox grinned tightly. "Ye gods, Spears was furious. He wanted Eric obliterated or sent straight to Hell. That was the first time I ever dared disagree with him. He told me to clean up. I, ah, reinterpreted his order a bit. I collected and filed every soul at the scene, all tidy and shipshape, and got his signature on the paperwork when he was distracted. All 1001 records. He lost count at about 750 and finished in a rush."

"So Eric—Eric was safely collected?"

"I reaped you both. Don't ever do that to me again. Spears found out later, of course, but he forgave me eventually. When he was posted to France he took me along as his aide-de-camp. I served with him until I was injured."

The second switchblade snapped into the wrist clip with a satisfying click. Deep within himself, Alan rejoiced. Eric's soul existed outside of Hell. Thanks be to Typhon, first and greatest of all the Reapers.

Knox eyed him grimly. "Looks like the Thorns are gone. True?"

"True." And wasn't the absence of pain a glorious thing.

"Damn. Sorry. Not that I want you sick. But. You are going to fake it. It makes perfect sense that you'd be provided with a healthy body upon awakening, but I'm desperate for experienced, competent teachers. I am going to keep you here. You can establish your illness and train with my new graduates a bit. There are some new techniques you'll want to master."

"Ronald—"

"The trainees are every bit as useless as we were at that stage. With so few functional seniors to protect them, more of them are dying in their first year. Those who live get shipped out too soon. Survival rates over there are not good. They don't deal well with recall, either. Especially those who originally suicided to get away from the war."

"Ronald."

"Almost two years ago. He's fighting demons in France. Spears told him to consider it permanent overtime."

"How soon can I leave?"

"Ideally, you don't. No, sit down! The war is coming to an end. One side is running out of men and matériel. If you leave, you'll have to follow whatever orders you are given. You'll be sent into chaos, posted who-knows-where, and Eric will be home long before you will. No. You will stay here, train my panicky juniors, calm my battle-broken seniors, assume some of my administrative duties, look sickly, and wait for Eric to come to you.

"My fiendish plan is this, so shut up and listen; Eric comes home with Sutcliff's merry murderous band of loonies. The French Branches are anxious to be rid of 'em, so they should be back soon. You will be here to greet them. By the time that Spears has wound up the demobilization in France, you and Eric will be an efficient team too successful to break up. Spears will be promoted well upward. He will be too busy, and too smart, to interfere with you. Understand? The pair of you will be my problem.

"So it's up to you to ground and anchor Eric. If you don't, he'll have to be Reaped and filed. He came out of the Library changed. He's darker, quieter, driven, and dangerous. He showed up in France—first time I've ever seen him in full uniform, vest and tie and his shirt buttoned up—and I could only hope he'd scare the enemy half as much as he scared me. He scared Grell. He's been a very effective demon-killer, but there are rumors that he's hard to control and goes looking for targets. Please try to imagine a situation in which Grell is being the responsible one."

"Sickly" was simple enough. Alan squelched his pride. He acquired uniform shirts slightly too large, shortened his stride, adopted a mien of weary endurance, and, once, leaned against a wall while gasping quietly. The word got out. Recruiters looking for conscripts passed him over. Knox successfully registered him as temporarily unfit for foreign assignment.

This gave him time to become valuable in his current position. He used it in all possible ways. He mediated arguments, did favors, solved problems, researched information, bolstered confidence, calmed hysterics. He set up training schedules for all his department. He drilled and dueled with every one of them. Seniors began to regain lost courage, juniors gained confidence. Amusing tales began to circulate about the consequences of underestimating small skinny sneaky my-god-he's-fast little swots. These harmless stories, which could be told without tears or trembling, aided a developing esprit de corps.

After each session, he sat down with his fellows and discussed successes and mistakes and any handy tricks the seniors and instructors might have picked up in their battle days. Wheezing a bit, he let them help him stand—good man, but sickly—and took them out for drinks. When the exercise made him look a little too healthy, he skipped meals and worked extra shifts.

He greeted visiting Reapers from other countries and smoothed over cultural differences with gentle respect. When older Seniors waxed indignant over the drafting of females to fill empty chairs, Humphries soothed their ruffled feathers and brought them gradually to acceptance. He taught the women all he knew about fighting or fooling larger opponents. He learned a few tricks from them as well. Together they developed a truly nasty style of infighting. The women looked him over, saw that his honest heart belonged to someone absent, and adopted him as brother and friend. When recruiters came nosing about, the women sent them off convinced that poor brave hard-working Alan was quite ill.

He made himself responsible for the To-Die lists. Juniors showing signs of compassion were given all the most despicable humans to harvest. He counseled each junior and held himself up as a Horrible Example. Nobody would contract the Thorns if he could prevent it.

Juniors with a year's experience but inadequate skills somehow escaped Recruitment's greedy grasp. They found themselves assigned to other civilian branches rather than to armies. The same was true for Seniors who were physically recovered but mentally shattered. They transferred as junior/senior pairs whenever possible. Alan's recommendations were filed under Knox's signature.

There were strong, capable juniors ambitious to attain fame and promotion, and seniors fully recovered and vengeful. Alan set up seminars with newly returned convalescents in which the newest developments, tactics, weapons and troop movements were reviewed. The juniors lost a few illusions and gained caution. He heard later that their commanders were quite impressed; they were not used to receiving veterans ready-briefed or juniors with any training at all. The survival rates rose.

As the influenza spread in London, Alan escorted groups of Reapers on their rounds. He always detailed a couple of the shakier ones to watch his back in case he "faltered". This easy duty reassured and encouraged them. The demons they encountered really were a sorry lot. Something about the war, probably. The bolder demons would be in the battlefields, taking greater risks for greater rewards. The real danger lay in accidentally interrupting disputes between angels, Holy and Fallen; those arrogant bastards made no effort to spare bystanders.

He became the only person who could fix the coffee machine.

Always, always, he listened. He sat quietly in the bars, feigned sleep in the afterparties. Poor fellow's sickly, you know, let him rest; he'll wake in a bit. He listened in the halls and cafeteria, streets and rooftops.

Slowly the whispers came. Eric Slingby, demon hunter. Eric Slingby, demon killer. Eric Slingby, feared even by those he was assigned to protect. Eric Slingby, mad as any two hatters you cared to name. But very very skilled. Definitely the man you wanted to guard you while you Reaped. At least he remembered whose side he was on. Usually, anyway. Subordinate to the legendary Sutcliff. Made even Sutcliff nervous sometimes. Occasionally sent on solo patrols. Tended to return with the sort of smile that made people edge away.

Was Eric seeking the demon who had killed him? Was he menacing Sutcliff, who had aided the demon? If Spears deemed Eric untrustworthy, Eric would be gone in the flash of a scythe. Alan wrote a letter, and burned it. If Eric deserted to return to him, all would be lost. Knox was right. Alan waited, and if he occasionally seemed upset—well. He's sickly, you know. It wears on you.

There was a junior recruiter with a quota to fill. Alan's presence offended him. He proposed to Knox that Alan be reaped and reawakened to see if that would make him whole and healthy for combat; if not, Alan should be permanently returned to the Library as defective.

Knox invited the man's superior to a little meeting.

Knox was shocked, sir, shocked! to think that any honest recruiter would ever consider such a despicable act. Did Recruitment have a protocol to deal with the consequences of the judicial murder of an exemplary Reaper? Would the Higher Ups tolerate such treatment of a diligent worker with an excellent record of faithful service? Especially one who was well-liked by peers and superiors throughout the Division, one who was approved and accepted by prickly foreign liaisons? It would require at least three people to replace Humphries, every one a peacemaker—not a common skill in the Reaper Realm. Knox pointed out that Humphries was managing the dog work for the entire Branch. Would Recruitment care to assume those duties?

Knox then ran an eloquent riff on they-also-serve, channeled Spears for inexcusable-misuse-of-a-business-asset, and coolly accepted Recruitment's apology.

"Alan, you've got an enemy. I've blocked him for now. I think this was more stupidity than malice, but who knows? Be aware."

For the next week, Alan's sickness was genuine. He traded overtime plus two custom switchblades for a precious tin of tea (genuine pre-war quality) and passed it to the secretary of a senior Recruiter. He felt sure he would be warned of future threats from that direction.

He was deeply ashamed of his pretense. But he needed to be there for Eric. And everybody else.

The recruiters talked to each other, of course, where others could hear. A sick Reaper? Unheard of. Injured, yes, but sick? Sniffles, perhaps, the occasional hangover, but chronic illness? No. Well, once, maybe. Could a Reawakening partially fail?

A representative from Scientific showed up in Dispatch, fairly quivering with greed for knowledge. Alan looked into those bright, avid eyes and saw his future as a collection of bits floating in formaldehyde. The scientist's questions promised vivisection down to the molecular level. The scientist asked them, however, in front of several other Dispatch agents, who stood up as one and frog-marched him out. Knox intervened again. The scientist was curbed.

Alan acquired a vial of concentrated demon venom, which would place him beyond Scientific's reach if taken before they disarmed him. It rode next to the switchblade in his vest. Its presence was oddly comforting.

There were recurring nightmares. Eric killing him. Eric returning from France, eyes passing over Alan with indifference; just another worthless little swot. Eric refusing to work with him, a coward. Eric, too violent for peacetime duties, executed. Eric, damned, asking why Alan had failed him.

Alan went to the gym, punched bags and people in the name of training, and carried on. There were so many who needed whatever help he could give. He would not abandon them.

Slowly, unofficially, he taught others flexibility. He let a few promising people see the hidden benefits of a contented workforce. One or two developed an interest, then skill. He was quite proud of their development. Unknown to all, he passed them projects to enhance their talents; unknown to him, they considered him their secret mentor. They brought him cups of horrible battery-acid coffee and tea, conspired to ease his load and unintentionally spread his methods to friends in other departments.

The war ended, for the humans at least. The Divine Realm finally decided that the Demon Realm's rampage through the Human Realm was excessive. There was a Battle, which the Reapers were happy to witness from a safe distance. The Gates of Hell closed. The angels swept off to their garrisons. The sudden quiet was astounding.

The Recruitment Department was restructured to facilitate the return of all the Reapers shipped out. Dispatch threw a closed-door party which officially had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the end of their predations.

At last Alan no longer needed to be sickly. Slowly he dropped the concealing mannerisms. He donned clothes that fit, gradually lengthened his stride, stood straight. He no longer pulled his punches or asked for help with his Reaps. Few noticed. There was too much else going on, with everyone determined to celebrate the end of the grey grim days of war. There was also not that much difference between a skinny sick Alan and a skinny healthy Alan. Not these days.

As Knox had predicted, wartime heroes were peacetime nuisances. The French Reapers were grateful for all the help, of course they were, but the war is over, non? France was quite able to manage her own affairs. Please remove Sutcliff's savages. Now. And all the rest of your people, so sorry we can't afford to feed them, surely you all are eager to return home.

Spears assured them that he would make all haste consistent with an orderly withdrawal. The paperwork must be complete and accurate. He was sure that they understood the need for proper documentation, that no one be left behind. He extracted quite a few concessions by implying that Sutcliff's team, at loose ends and becoming bored, might not be among the earliest troops repatriated—surely the injured must go first, then those who had been there the longest, and of course a rear guard was always necessary until the last man left. Who could be more suitable than Sutcliff's celebrated demon fighters? England was proud to offer these skilled veterans as the lights-out crew.

Alan, looking in a merciless morning mirror, wondered if Eric would even remember him.

The soldiers began to return. They were not pleased to find their jobs were filled with, quote, "women, kids and cripples." Knox reminded them that Reapers served where they were sent. After the loudest complainers were sent to unpleasant posts, grumbling became more furtive.

Alan talked to everyone, pointing out that many hands was a good thing. He reworked the schedules and shifts to accommodate all. Empty desks were filled, seating was expanded. Gradually workloads lightened. Overtime became bearable, then rare. Workers were allowed to specialize in those responsibilities best suited to their skills. Balance was achieved. Slowly the office atmosphere relaxed. Efficiency sang in the development of professional pride. Productivity was at its peak. Friendships formed. Hobbies were started, which led to a few clubs. Couples paired off. Laughter was occasionally heard. A few determined malcontents were helped to find desirable positions elsewhere.

A Higher Up remarked that Reaping was supposed to be a punishment. It was a joke; he'd seen the results in Knox's books and records. Still, Knox told everyone to at least try to look properly miserable when visitors were around. Somebody actually giggled, which set off an explosion of muffled snorts and whinnies.

The returnees reminisced in the halls and break rooms, telling war stories to the admiring juniors. Alan listened. "Sutcliff finds peacetime an awful bore. He finally became so annoying that Spears packed him off to Belgium to count raindrops. He found a lover there, just his type—tall, dark and disinterested. The rest of the crew? The Paris Dispatch are jealous of their success, don't like the reminder that they ever needed help, want them gone.

"Spears finds them useful, though. There was one local official diverting supplies from our stores. Spears assigned him Eric Slingby as an honor guard, a 'gesture of respect for our honored ally'. The stealing stopped cold. When Spears had all the blackmail material he wanted, he graciously accepted Slingby back. The thief has a permanent nervous tic."

Some of Sutcliff's team returned. They reported that Spears had agreed to remain in France indefinitely to observe the peace negotiations. Spears thought that the humans were botching it. Setting themselves up for a whole new war before you know it. Better keep staffing levels high.

Alan collected these returnees after work and offered to buy. Soon they were relaxed enough to talk freely.

"Spears uses Eric and his 'crazy-dangerous' reputation to good effect. Slingby plays it up as circumstance requires. Enjoys it, too. So, I suspect, does Spears."

"But Slingby's not really any more mental than the rest of us..."

"Well, at first he was, but that was more anger than insanity, I'd say..."

"Something about Sutcliff sets him off, too. Do you remember that time..."

"Which was all good for demon fighting but a problem in quarters..."

"When Spears finally sent Grell away, Eric cooled down considerably..."

"Still not a happy man. Drinks. Alone."

Alan applied to Housing for an apartment, so that he could offer Eric a place to stay when he came home. It felt too large, too empty. He tried to fill it with hope. He finally closed off all but the bath and his bedroom and visited only to sleep. He kept Eric's extra-long bed freshly made, and waited.

From a shop in London he bought a small glass vase with two stems of silk flowers—lilies of the valley. They sat on the far corner of his desk. He told the office ladies that they signified "return to happiness" in the Language of Flowers. They thought it was ever so symbolic. He thought it was a prayer.

Not that they were wrong about the symbolism. Lilies of the valley were toxic in every part. Even the water that the cut flowers were kept in became poisonous. The happiness that Eric wished for might not include him.

Still, he had his orders. He could help Eric readjust to peacetime as a mere co-worker or acquaintance. That done, he could lose himself in work. Eric could take over the apartment, to share with whomever he wished. Alan would return to his single room in the senior dorms. It would fit him better.

But Eric did not come.

Out of his humming department, Knox selected an aide. Robbie Smithson was quick, sharp and personable, an aspiring ladies' man—Alan was amused to see Knox hiring in his own image. Alan took the youngster aside and briefed him on the enemies Knox had made in his behalf. He provided a list of aides in other departments who were chipper, friendly, gossiping fellows, sources to be cultivated. Robbie, eyes narrowed, took it all in, then went off to make some new drinking buddies. Knox would be kept informed of all the undercurrents.

Knox and Smithson vanished on assignment for a week, leaving Alan elbow-deep in the annual budget. Alan carefully extended his awareness beyond Numbers Hell, but really, the office ran itself. Aside from one noisy lover's tiff that Alan shushed and mediated into tearful apologies, nothing happened that his trainees didn't handle quietly.

Knox and Smithson returned to an office that had functioned perfectly in their absence.

Knox bragged about it in certain circles. That was a mistake.

"Mr. Knox, we are quite impressed with your Division. Your methods are nontraditional, but the results are undeniable. We wish you to transfer to Manchester and work your magic there."

"Sir, I am most flattered by your offer but I cannot accept. The magician is one of my subordinates. My only contribution to our success has been to leave him to it and to prevent others from interfering."

"Ah. And who might this talented agent be?"

—Oh damn. "His name is Alan Humphries."

A coolness crept into the room. "I know that name. A revenant. Thorns of Death? Murdered by his criminally insane partner? Possibly faked illness to shirk war duty?"

Knox held his superior's gaze. "Sir, may we speak in confidence? For if you promise that this will go no further, I will tell you a tale. I will also tell you why he is where he is, and why he must remain there."

Alan eased an armload of completed collection forms into Knox's sign-and-forward basket. "I hear Billings has been promoted to Manchester as an office manager. Good man. He'll do wonderfully there."

"Yes. We'll miss him, I'm sure, but we have others ready to fill his place. Distribute his duties among them."

"I wonder how Manchester heard of him. Did you recommend him? If you did, you have my thanks. He's ready for a greater challenge."

"I may have mentioned his name."

Alan smiled like a sunrise. "That's grand. He was just at the point of becoming bored here. This is perfect for him. And for Manchester, whether or not they know it."

"Oh, yes. Poor unsuspecting things. Very traditional. Stern and forbidding as a granite cliff, with an unacceptable tolerance for botched Reaps and trainee injuries. The previous Director has been promoted to a harmless slot in Admin, may he forever shuffle paper in peace. Billings' new boss will be supportive. In half a year the scurrying minions will begin to realize that they are happy and productive, and wonder why." Knox paused. "Alan, I want you to accept mentorship for a couple of your helpers. Your skills are valuable and should be taught."

And, just like that, the light went out. "Ronald. I am a failed Reaper. I disobeyed the Rules. I contracted a shameful disease. I caused the madness and death of my partner. I am a recalled soul suspected of lying and cowardice. Do not attach my name to anyone's record. It will taint them forever."

"Alan— "

"I will teach anyone who wants to learn. But they need to be officially assigned to a respected Reaper of good reputation. I suggest Daniels. Or Chilchester. For the trainees, I think Whyte, Regis, Evans and Shoemaker. Let's see how they do over the next year, then select one to stay here and replace me. Send the others out as journeymen."

"What? Wait—"

"Eric's not coming back, Ronnie. He's staying with Spears, who is a natural-born Higher Up. It's a better, safer position for him. I will train my replacement. One year. Then, please, I wish for oblivion. Return me to the Library."

From Ronald Knox, London Dispatch, to William T. Spears, Paris Outpost; Your Eyes Only
Please reassign Eric Slingby to London Dispatch soonest.

From William T. Spears, Paris Outpost, to Ronald Knox, London Dispatch; Your Eyes Only
Whatever for? Here at least he has his uses.

From Ronald Knox, London Dispatch, to William T. Spears, Paris Outpost; Your Eyes Only
Because his safety net is failing. Now, please.

From William T. Spears, Paris Outpost, to Ronald Knox, London Dispatch; Your Eyes Only
Explain. Briefly.

From Ronald Knox, London Dispatch, to William T. Spears, Paris Outpost; Your Eyes Only
Sir,
In brief:
1. Alan Humphries has been kept stationed here to help Slingby reassimilate into civilian life. He has been persecuted abominably by jackasses from the Recruitment and Scientific Departments.
2. Alan Humphries, having lost hope, has asked to be Reaped after one further year of service.
3. If Slingby does not return soon we will lose both of them, which would be wasteful, and
4. I am perfectly capable of telling Sutcliff that you are pining for him.

From William T. Spears, Paris Outpost, to Ronald Knox, London Dispatch; Your Eyes Only
1. In re: Blackmail attempt. Behold, my revenge is swift and terrible; Slingby is yours. He leaves in the morning. By the way, Sutcliff is happily paired, you homewrecker.
2. In re: This scheme. Slingby was unusually civil when given his orders. He and I are quite pleased that Humphries has been recalled. I think this may work. I always liked Humphries, in spite of his taste in partners. Do keep me informed of their progress.
3. You owe me one large looming thug, experienced, clever, and unprincipled, to be sent as soon as availability permits. A reputation for barely controlled bloodlust a plus. Madness not necessary, as we will provide it.
4. This new peace is itself grounds for war. I give it twenty years, only because that will be the time required to raise a new generation of soldiers. Staff and train your department accordingly. Detailed report to follow.

Early morning shift change at London Dispatch. A flurry of purposeful action as lists are passed, assignments double-checked, completed forms submitted, quick handover assessments given by third shift to first shift. Knox's door opens. Sudden silence.

"Humphries. In here, please. Now."

General concern. What could be the problem? Their Alan is as rule-abiding as a multiplication table. How could he be in trouble? Are his enemies after him again? Blank-faced like any good minion or condemned criminal, Humphries obeys at once. Knox, remaining outside, closes the door and looks around the room. "Well? Get to work, you lot. Have you had your morning briefing? Of course you have. Go."

They go.

Alan, standing before Knox's desk, hears the door close behind him. He bows his head. Will he finally be tried for evading wartime duty? Has Scientific claimed his body for research? His desk is clear, there are no outstanding projects or unsolved emergencies; his going will not leave the slightest ripple. The little bottle is safe in his vest. He raises his hand and slips it out into his palm.

"Alan." Not Knox. He has not heard that voice in—so long—

"Alan. I'm home."

He turns to see a man leaning against the wall behind him. A very tall man who is all of his hopes and dreams and despair. Whole, healthy, safe. Smiling. And beautiful, beautiful beyond all imagining.

The vial drops and rolls unseen.

From Ronald Knox, London Dispatch, to William T. Spears, Paris Outpost; Hand Delivery

Sir;

Please accept the bearer of this message as payment in full of my debt. He will play the part you assign him with gusto. Reputation will quickly follow. Scruples not present or, indeed, ever installed. Skills remarkable. Lockpicks provided. Standard armaments plus whatever he's picked up on the way. Quick learner. Inventive. Be careful how you phrase his orders. Capable of loyalty, which you do tend to inspire. You're welcome.

I have read your report with great interest. I agree with your conclusions and will plan accordingly.

I don't see why you were so worried about Slingby. He and Humphries snapped together like magnets and have been inseparable since. I have had no problem with him, nor has any problem been reported. (Of course, this may just mean that the staff is covering for them. All Dispatch thinks they are 'cute'. Horrors.) They are a remarkable team, with Humphries the quiet but dominant half. Oddly, angels seem to hold Alan in respect. Demons won't go near Slingby. Useful.

Slingby even still wears his vest—it's whispered that Alan finds Eric quite attractive in a vest—but the tie and shirt buttons are back to half-mast. Disgustingly happy, the pair of 'em, but they are good for morale. I believe that as long as no one attempts to part them they, and we, will be fine.

We were just in time, Will. Alan was carrying a suicide device. The Scientific Department scared the daylights out of him. He said he feared that defending himself would cause trouble for me; typical Humphries. He now has standing orders to fight back against all in-house aggression. I cannot imagine anyone getting to him past Slingby, but I am watching those Scientific bastards anyway. Keep them in mind. Something's not quite right there, beyond simple bureaucratic inhumanity. I think we may have to step on them someday.

Enjoy your new toy. Take care of it, please. A good villain is hard to find.

Your humble servant
Ronald Knox, Director, London Dispatch