The dive bar, smartly named The Crucible, was one of the only spots that Callus knew to be open at such a late hour. Or perhaps it was such an early hour, considering that it was just barely past one o'clock in the morning.

The patrons at that time consisted mainly of those well-seasoned drunks who knew that if they fell asleep in some quiet corner at a table--some even perched riskily upon bar stools at the far end of the bar--that they could remain hidden away in the bar's soft neons and dark shadows until dawn was just about to break. In this way, they could avoid the outside world--perhaps even forget about it altogether--as long as they were enraptured in the pint (and many empty pints) before them. Among the other folk that gathered there were two chain-smoking men playing at the billiards table, their ashtray overflowing, and an older gentleman at one of the booths against the wall slumped over his strong pour of brandy.

The Crucible was a hole-in-the-wall establishment at the proximal end of Lambeth hidden beneath a convoluted web of scaffolding that had been up for alleged construction on the apartments above for the last several years (although Callus knew that he had yet to see a single blue-collar worker servicing the project in the many, many times that he had frequented the bar). Nonetheless, the scaffolding remained, covering the bar in pipe and planks of balsa so much so that the neon burn of the front sign was half-hidden from sight at all times. Only at night could one happen to catch the electric yellow glow that ruminated out from just above the heavy oak door that was chipping with ancient black paint under an iron door handle.

The folk who knew of it, knew it quite well. The barkeep and owner of the joint, a great hulking beast of a man named Ned, was a gruff fellow who usually only spoke to customers in a series of simple grunts and exasperated noises. In the late hours--the only times when Callus found himself crossing through The Crucible's doorstep--Ned was often the only one working, with the serving girls in their short skirts having all gone home in the sensible evening hours.

Ned, a straightforward gent, was apt in only serving pints of whatever beer they had on the taps and straight pours of liquor. He did not even begin to acknowledge the rare inquiry for a cocktail, and woe to the brave soul who dared to enter into his realm and demanded such fare as a margarita.

He ran a tight ship, to say the least. Callus had seen him crush literal pint glasses between his (towel-covered) fingers upon being asked such questions as, "do you serve burgers here?" or--his personal favorite--"what do you mean there's no public washroom?"

On this particular wee hour of the early morning, Callus wandered inside the hallowed halls of The Crucible and sauntered up to a bar stool, sliding onto it easily. He tore off his rain-laden wool overcoat, the brand new deep navy one that he had purchased from Gelding's the month before, and he crossed an ankle over his knee, leaning one elbow on the shining resin of the concrete and pine bar. Over the jukebox in the corner, a crooning ballad was swelling to it's climactic pitch, and the crack of a billiard cue rang out through the air and caused one of the sleeping table-dwellers to lurch forward, awake and confused at his sudden predicament of being covered in beer from the frothing full pint that he had gracefully sent toppling over in his jolt.

Ned stood with his back turned to Callus, polishing a few glasses and the glinting silver taps that hung in a neat line on the wall. Callus inspected the man--evenly-shaven chestnut hair, with one stark pale scar that reached from behind his ear and ended at the base of his skull. He had neck tattoos that peeked out from underneath his collar and wrapped his skin like faded, multi-colored tissue paper.

From where he sat, Callus could just make out the tiny, dark outline of the Harbrung symbol--a half-circle with a line running diagonally through it and leaving out of each edge. It looked as if Ned had tried to cover up the Harbrung multiple times; Callus noticed that there was a messy conglomeration of pictures that had melted together over the years in his attempts to hide his allegiance. But the symbol of his oath had seemed to burn through the other layers of ink to make itself prominent above the others, regardless of its age and wear.

Callus settled his chin lazily in his hand, propped up on the bar's surface. He kicked the bottom of the bar once, and his shoe made a sharp knock, eliciting a grunt from Ned, whose hands continued to mindlessly clean the glass he held.

"Cold reception, even from you," Callus chided at last. He was a tall man, somewhere late in his twenties, with a closely-cut tangle of brunette curls and a sharp chin. He was pale with a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and he possessed deep brown eyes that often hid beneath his dark brows.

"Didn't seem to have a red carpet laying around for your arrival," Ned growled, jerking his chin over his shoulder to fix one icy green eye on Callus, the fine lines of his leathered skin crinkling in annoyance. "I'll be sure to have it ready next time."

"You're forgiven," Callus said with a taunting wave of his hand, and Ned scowled, turning to face the young man with one hand on his hip, the other still gripping his polishing rag. "Anyways, I'm here on business. No fanfare needed for now."

"And what sort of dealing are you thinking of dragging into my place?" Ned bristled.

"Oh, nothing that would involve your trousers getting in a twist, my friend," Callus drummed his fingers on the bar with a sweetly wicked smile. "Merely meeting a business partner here shortly."

"And what if I kick your sorry, scrawny ass out of here before you can do any such thing?" Ned's voice was acrid, even while he maintained his quiet. Callus knew that if Ned so wished it, he could pluck him up from the scruff of his crisp new wool coat and toss him headlong into the rain-slicked streets as if he were chucking a basin of dirty water. "I don't like your type, Cal. I want you and your people to stay out of my hair."

"Your temper, alike to your hair, is mercilessly short, good fellow," Cal saw Ned's jaw clench and he continued on quickly. "But believe me when I tell you, my kind have no interest in meddling with your means of living. The Crucible has long-since been my watering hole--coming up on six years or so, I reckon--and I would hate to lose access to such a fine establishment as yours. Especially since I'm always willing to pay."

Ned eyed him with distaste, and Cal shrugged amicably, digging in his trousers for his wallet. "If my companion and I prove to be too much for you to handle at this early hour, then we will depart. You have my word."

Ned snorted, "what will you have?"

"A porter," Cal commented, placing his wallet on the bar and smiling sheepishly. "For now." Ned turned his back to Cal with a grunt and began to rummage through the glasses for a tulip. Cal reached round his chair to his coat and pulled it up to reach the inner breast pocket where he stored a fresh pack of Rothmans. He broke the seal on the box and pulled out a cig, dancing it between his fingertips. When he straightened up once more, Ned was just finishing filling his glass from the tap, and the bartender placed the dark, sultry beer down on the bar's surface and slid it towards Cal, the foam at the top practically bursting over the lip. Cal pulled it close to him and held out his cigarette with his other hand, "got a light?"

Ned leaned forward towards Cal with a frown and stretched out his large, scarred pointer finger. With a sharp sideways glance at the fellows playing billiards, Ned coughed, and as he did so, a sparkling orange flame erupted from the tip of his finger and danced merrily in the dim light of the bar. Cal's breath caught in surprise, but he leaned forward with a controlled ease, his cig in his mouth, and held the end to the flame, where it began to smolder with ignition.

Ned stifled his finger with a snap, and Cal sat back taking a long drag. "Didn't know you could get away with things like that in these parts," he commented casually, but he had realized that his pulse had quickened in his neck at the sight of Ned performing the act. "Not exactly the type of thing Commoners see every day."

Magic was hidden for a reason in this town--there were laws against the use and abuse of it--and even if Ned owned the joint, a public bar was a prime place for a Commoner to notice an anomaly and to bring unwanted attention to its existence. Cal hadn't seen someone so blatantly pull their magic out of their pocket in the Known World such as Ned had in a long while, and even then, Cal had watched the last bloke who had been flagrant with it get seized immediately by Lawmen. The memory of it was enough to keep him in line when he was wandering the streets of London, keeping his own abilities tucked away tightly unless he was in total control of his surroundings. He himself had often practiced the art of discretion, especially with a powerfully dealt deck of powers as his own.

"My rules in here," Ned retorted briskly, but Cal saw the man brush his hands almost nervously on his apron at his waist. The bartender motioned to the rest of the patrons scattered about like chaff. "They're all too wrapped up in themselves to notice, anyways.

It was at that moment that Callus heard the door behind him scrape, and a soft gust of heavy, wet wind entered the bar with a cacophony of pelting rain. Ned's eyes narrowed, his scowl deepening, and Cal spun on his bar stool to see the tall, lean shape of Dean Avery fill up the door frame, water dripping from the length of his brown peacoat.

Dean closed the door, the sound awakening yet another one of the dozing table-dwellers from their stupor, and he wiped his trainers on the doormat as he peeled off his coat, giving it a good shake beside the door to rid it of the rainwater and hanging it on the coat rack pegged to the wall. He looked up and caught Cal's eye, and Cal couldn't stop himself from beaming at him.

"Glad you could make it," Cal said when Dean approached, and he stuck out a hand heartily. Dean took it, giving it a firm shake. "Didn't know if the trip would be too far for you."

"Sorry I had to meet you here so late," Dean remarked. Cal noticed that he had deep, blue shadows under his eyes, and that he was overdue for a proper shave. "I had business this evening in Brink."

"Don't worry, mate; I figured you were up to your eyeballs at work this week." Cal motioned for Dean to sit, and Dean slid into the adjacent bar stool. "Ned! A drink for my colleague, if you would."

Ned grunted, and he fixed a wary eye on Dean. "Just a bourbon," Dean said calmly. "Neat, please."

Ned snarled something under his breath, and he snapped his fingers once more. A glass swung from the shelf behind him and landed gently into his outstretched hand, and Ned turned to reach for the bottle of cheap bourbon on the lower of the glass cabinet eaves. Dean and Cal exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke, Cal puffing away at his cigarette and tapping one finger on his tulip glass. When Ned finally slid the half-glass of amber liquor towards Dean and moved to the other end of the bar to clean up the glasses left there by the men playing billiards, Cal rotated on the bar stool and leant one elbow heavily on the bar, snagged his drink and taking a swig. "So," he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning the remnant foam from the corner of his lip. "How's work?"

The simplicity of the question was not lost on Dean. He ran a hand through his hair, keenly aware of who was surrounding them at the bar, and of who might be listening in. "Not great these days, I'm afraid. Been running into a few dead ends as of late with my assignments."

"Oh?" Cal leaned forward slightly. "That's surprising to hear. Usually you're quite laissez faire with how you go about solving your clients' problems. What's different?"

"The assignments have been more challenging," Dean said quietly, but Cal caught the note of frustration lacing his words. "There's been more obstacles than expected. Did you happen to hear about the delay over the Southwark Bridge last week?"

"I did indeed. Sounded like traffic was backed up for miles." Cal studied Dean intensely. "Did that have something to do with your current business?"

Dean nodded gravely. "It had much to do with it."

The Southwark Bridge Incident the previous Tuesday had almost thrown Brink into total lockdown. Although Cal hadn't been in the vicinity to witness it, as he was attending to business of his own within Brink at the time, he had seen the Ovals all over the city blare with alerts the hour that it occurred and then for several hours after. At noon on that Tuesday, the bridge had suddenly begun to run through with long, spindly cracks spreading out in all directions and running up and down the foundational pillars that stretched into the Thames.

The Ovals had shown pedestrians and cyclists on the bridge screaming and running like rats for the safety of the streets on either side of the river, and people in their automobiles began to abandon their cars and sprint alongside them, all the while the bridge making great groaning sounds of crumbling plaster and concrete. London authorities had been quick to block off the bridge from either end, controlling the chaos as they investigated the weaknesses in the infrastructure. The question was as to how it had occurred so suddenly, and why it had happened all at once rather than showing signs of wear over the days and weeks prior to the incident. It was an ongoing case, with some suspecting foul play, and the bridge was sectioned off until further notice as they hired crews of construction workers to begin to patch the cracks and to ensure structural soundness once more.

However, it had taken only one glace for Cal to see the cracks on the bridge lined with what looked like thick, black veins. The London officials had been quick to shrug their colored appearance off as old tar used in the original cementing of the foundations, but the folk of Brink had become unsettled at the sight of what smelled remarkably not solely like foul play, but also foul magic.

"I imagine the bridge being sectioned off put quite a damper on your efficiency that day," Cal continued. One of the billiard players swore violently as his opponent pocketed a striped ball neatly.

"I was too late, yes." Dean's answer sent a jolt of dread through Cal, though he kept his face forcibly even. Dean's eyes were tired as he focused his gaze on his drink before bringing it to his lips and sipping at it. "The bridge was enough of a distraction to let his thugs take what I was after while I was helping with crowd control to keep the peace."

Cal's breath caught, "so, they got another one?" The jukebox in the corner switched vinyls to a swaying love song, and another billiard cue cracked through the air.

"I'm afraid so." Dean answered.

Cal blew out a puff of smoke, the anxiety in his chest swelling. "I am...sorry to hear that it affected business for you."

"Feel sorry for her," Dean muttered morosely. "Another one gone right out from under us."

Cal was silent for a moment, considering Dean's words. He knew the Seeker wasn't one to let such things get him down--as he had seen Dean lose out on many leads before--but he could tell that Dean was particularly upset by this occurrence. "Do you think the bridge was deliberately targeted at you?"

Dean scoffed, his fingers clenching into a fist on the bar. "They knew I was tailing them for days. It was only a matter of time before they tried to shake me. But this...was extravagant. Even for him."

"So, why do you look like hell this evening, then?"

Dean flinched, glancing at his drink and darkening ever so slightly. "I've been awake awhile, and we're in a back alley bar. I didn't exactly get the memo on showing here with a formal dress code."

"Don't be a smart ass," Cal said, his voice losing humor. "You can't blame looking like you've been dragged through The Choke by your ankles on a little insomnia. I know you better than that, Avery." He tapped a bit of ash from the end of his cigarette, "what have you been chasing after that's got you so haggard?"

Dean sipped his bourbon silently, his eyes watching Ned in the corner as he cleaned. "I don't like to be interrogated in public, Cal. I've already said too much." His voice was a whisper. "You should watch your tongue, too. You have an awful lot of confidence to be discussing such things with Commoners' ears burning so closely."

Cal's smile spread across his face triumphantly as he took another drink, "why, Avery, we're perfectly discreet at the moment."

It took Dean a fraction of a second to realize that the hum of the bar lights, the croon of the jukebox, and the squeak of Ned's rag had all fallen completely silent around him. His gaze rocketed back and forth from Ned's turned back to Cal's mischievous grin, and he saw the air waver around them out of the corner of his eye. "Cal," he hissed sharply. "You know how dangerous this is."

"My abilities tend to be a bit more refined, as you know. They remain mercifully invisible to even the likes of old Neddy," Cal said, stretching his shoulders back and digging his cigarette nub into a dirty ceramic ashtray off to the side of the bar. He motioned to the air just around them, and Dean saw it waver once more--a perfect halo of see-through spellwork that was concealing them inside, offering them an impenetrable privacy from the world around them.

"It's enough of an offense to get us both sacked if someone more refined should come walking through that door," Dean muttered, trying to keep his posture loose. Ned continued to clean, completely oblivious to them. One of the billiard players waved a hand at the bartender and mouthed a wordless request. Ned nodded and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, moving away from the bar and towards the billiard table to replenish the man's drink.

"Tell me what's going on," Cal said sharply, his voice suddenly stern. Dean met his eye, and all of the playfulness had leached away into an intensity that Cal was notorious for in his esteemed position as the Guild's Query.

One moment your friend, the other moment your worst nightmare turned reality--Callus Hopp was a man not to be trifled with. Although Dean knew that Cal was his working colleague--and his close friend of many years, with that--he also knew that Cal was going to see through any lie he could possibly string together, no matter how elaborate or laced with truth. He hadn't been sleeping, that was honest enough, but the real root of his stress was growing low in his stomach at the loss of yet another one of the Guild.

Helena had been a dedicated asset to tracking down powerful magic in the Known World since her acquisition of membership in the Guild a year prior, particularly in the area of London proper. But she had grown careless in her pursuit, and Dean hadn't realized how close to the flame she was playing when he caught wind of a rumor that she was being targeted. By the time he had managed to wipe enough Commoners' minds on that damned bridge after the incident to get away and make it to Helena's flat, it was too late. The place had been turned over, combed through, ripped apart, and Helena was nowhere to be found.

Dean told Cal all of this, however reluctantly, and Cal listened with rapt attention, thumbing another cig from his pack over and over on the bar. When Dean finished, he breathed out a long sigh, and he downed his bourbon in one swig, setting the glass down gently on the bar. "Since last week, there's been more sightings of Morse's men skulking around Brink getting their noses into things they shouldn't be meddling in." Dean bristled with anger, "just today, I got chased by one of them on the Way Through at Kings Cross. I can't believe their audacity thinking they can send one fellow after me and get me like they got the others."

"What did you do with him?" Cal inquired.

"The usual," Dean smirked. "Before I did though, I gave him a chance to tell me what they did with Helena."

"Any information?"

"He was stupid enough to laugh. So, I cut out his tongue before taking his mind." Dean's face was so drawn that Cal did not speak for a moment, allowing his friend to take a breath. Dean met Cal's eye, "his thoughts were useless. Nothing there I didn't already know, and a total waste of my energy. Turns out he wasn't one of the vultures set after her, but I still wish he had known something of value."

"I know you aren't quick to take a mind," Cal commented, and Dean's jaw clenched.

"Scum deserves it," Dean spat. "It's nothing but child's play for me when there's skin in the game."

"So is that why you're so wound up this morning?" Cal asked, and his eye darted to Ned, who had resumed his vigil over the bar, but was now facing the billiard players, his elbows leant on the resin surface. "Pay him no mind," Cal spoke before Dean could, "he hears us only talking about finances, and women. Nothing special."

Dean couldn't help but smile, "you're good, Cal."

"Too good," Cal agreed, draining his glass and raising it slightly in acknowledgement to Dean.

"I'm worried that something bigger is brewing," Dean admitted, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. "I know Helena wouldn't give them information--that she'd rather die than give them any sort of inkling of our business within the Guild--but I am sick with worry for her. Talia is in absolute ribbons over it. Her and Helena were close, as you know."

"We can't do this work well if we bother with making friends, I'm afraid," Cal said quietly, and Dean frowned.

"That's not my point," Dean said through slightly gritted teeth. "What I mean is that, with Morse making bigger moves against us more frequently, it is beginning to feel as if he is planning something that is making his followers fearless. I'm preparing myself for them to attempt something radically dramatic, or just plain stupid."

Cal considered this, and he sat back in his bar stool, crossing his arms across his chest as he studied Dean with a calculated gaze. "Believe it or not, Avery, that's why I called upon you to meet with me." Dean perked up, and Cal swirled the unlit cigarette in his fingers, making it disappear. "I have heard some things--whisperings in the dark corners of this damned Known city--things that concern you Seekers."

Dean's pulse quickened, and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Out with it, then."

Cal glanced around for half a second, and Dean realized that the Query was choosing his next words carefully, even with the silent spell still glimmering inadvertently around them. "There's been talk of a Giver crossing into London."

Dean couldn't stop himself from lurching forward in surprise, and Cal held up a stiff hand, causing him to halt and reminding him that they could still be seen. Dean played off his shock by leaning forward in a forced, extravagant coughing fit, and when he straightened up, he saw the blaze of Cal's eyes boring into him with not a singular note of jest. Dean cleared his throat, and he stared back, his eyes willing the Query to continue on. "Nothing is for certain, but my contacts have felt shifts occurring recently that they claim haven't been appreciated since the last Giver was found nearly four centuries ago. Of course, it's all ancient history, and much of it is based on a few tomes that are hardly legible, but...there have been signs. And I am concerned that Morse has heard the same whispers and is now trying to take matters into his own hands, even with no evidence to prove it."

"You think he believes the rumors?" Dean asked, and Cal shrugged.

"All I know is that he has always been a bit...impulsive in his actions."

"And Thatch will remain doing nothing?" Dean asked, the man's name a poison on his tongue. The descendant of a long line of royal assholes, Thatch Munger was the Ambassador of Brink, and he often turned a favoring eye upon the scum gangs that did his dirty work, Morse and his men being among his most loyal subjects. Cal scoffed drily.

"Ambassador Munger will continue to do whatever he wants with his exorbitant amount of power," he flicked his fingers again and his cigarette reappeared between his thumb and forefinger. "If a Giver were to cross into the Brink, and if Morse were to be the first to get his hands on them, I fear that the results would be detrimental for the Guild...perhaps even for all of Brink."

Dean was silent for a long moment, letting Cal's admission grow large and tangible between them.

It was information that had the ability to send the whole Guild into a frenzy should anyone else know. He took confidence in the fact that Cal had only shared the rumors with him, but how long could that remain so? Surely, his fellow Seekers would hear of it if it were to spread through Brink, and who was to say that it wasn't true? Talk of a Giver was second only to comedy--many people often joked about the formidable power they possessed like they were some mythical creature akin to a unicorn--but if Morse was buying it, then was there more to the rumors than both he and Cal knew? Did Morse have a source that was reliable; and if so, where were they getting their information from in the first place?

He could feel the bourbon beginning to give him a headache, and he pressed a hand to his temple, trying to relieve the pain. Cal looked at him sympathetically.

"I hope this doesn't add to your insomnia," he said evenly, his voice once more nonchalant. "But I figured that if there was anyone who needed to know, it would be Brink's finest Seeker."

Dean sighed, and he shook his head. "I need to know more. I've got to do some research, and I've got to talk to Talia and George. Chances are this is just some prank that started in the bowels of Brink, and that it's going to turn out to be all poppycock."

"Be wary," Cal warned quietly. "Watch your back when you speak."

Dean nodded gravely, and Cal made to stand. "When will I see you next?" He asked the Query, standing to his own feet and digging in his pocket for some pound notes. Cal held up his hand, sweeping on his navy coat.

"Let me," he said, snagging his wallet from the bar and leaving a ten pound note under his empty tulip glass. "Keep an ear out in Brink; I'll send for you when I know more. But for now," Cal waved his hand that clutched his cig, and the halo of magic that had surrounded them evaporated in a flash of the neon light behind the bar shelves. Ned turned to them, and Cal gave him a winning grin and a nod of thanks. "Stay out of the limelight, and don't get involved in any more bridges." His words were low in Dean's ear as they crossed the bar and Dean grabbed his coat from the hanger. "There's something thrumming beneath the cobbles, my friend, something sour. And I know you've felt it too these last weeks."

Dean pulled on his coat and Cal yanked open the door, another strong bluster of rain-swept wind blowing clear through them. They stepped out onto the uneven sidewalk, the long yellow lines of light shining down from the lamps above the street and onto the slick, glassy surface of the road. The streets were empty, the only sound the thundering of the raindrops upon the gravel.

Cal turned to face Dean, holding a hand above his head. As if blocked by some invisible force, the rain above him hit the barrier of magic he cast, and set it running off to the side, leaving him dry as a bone. Dean, on the other hand, felt the rain soaking him through almost immediately, a chill going through him.

"Take good care," Cal said lightly. "Don't let what you've heard tonight make you reckless."

"Same to you," Dean replied. "Keep me informed."

With a nod and a grin, Cal turned on his heel and moved away, his hand and his magic above him still blocking the rain from touching even a fiber of his woolen coat. Dean watched him walk off until he reached a distant streetlamp, and once he had passed under the light of it, Dean saw him melt into shadow, completely disappearing from sight.

With a shudder, Dean turned and pulled his collar up high around his ears, stalking briskly down the alley beside The Crucible and towards Waterloo. Once inside the transit station, he knew that the Way Through would be an easy journey home to Brink, and he looked forward to making a strong cup of tea and attempting to sleep, even if he dreaded the possibility of another long stint of sleep evading him at all costs. His home at least was out of this blasted torrent of ceaseless, frigid rain.

What Cal had said had shaken him. As he walked, he felt an unease begin to creep into the hollow of his chest. He had already been lamenting the loss of Helena, but with this new information--however rumored--he was acutely aware of his footsteps upon the stones. He wasn't afraid of being jumped, but he wasn't oblivious to the fact that he could also be easily followed if he wasn't careful.

He took the long way to Waterloo, cutting random corners and turning down to backtrack long stretches of street, adding half an hour to the usual ten minute stroll. Once at the steps of the transit station that led down into the London Underground, he took one last sharp glance over his shoulder and descended, his mind roiling.

A Giver in London. What a mess.

He crossed the dimly-lit station deliberately, using his train card at the kiosk and badging through. There were a few stay Commoners milling about the station, some moving from one end of the station to the other and some looking for places to sleep to escape the rain. He moved past them all, his sights set on the stairs leading down to the rail platforms. Once at the bottom, he strode to the platform heading westbound, and he waited for the train to arrive, his hands dug deep in his pockets.

Hogwash, most likely. Talia and George will laugh when I bring it up.

The distant rumble of the train made the platform under his feet vibrate, and Dean peered down the dark tunnel at where he could see vague blinking lights, indicating the approaching line. He rubbed his head once more with the palm of his hand, feeling the ache of the evening's events and the liquor rattle in his skull.

Morse can't be serious about it. I doubt he even has heard the rumors. It can't be correlated with Helena.

The train approached rapidly, and Dean clenched his fists in his coat pockets, feeling his fingernails dig into the heels of his hands. There was no one around, but it wouldn't matter even if there were. The Way Through had a particular way of hiding those who took it from Commoners' sights.

I want to sleep. This will make more sense when I get a good night's rest.

The train flashed past the platform, moving at speed. Dean sighed, stepping forward to the platform, crossing the thick yellow caution line.

A Giver in London. It's unbelievable.

He stepped into the mass of the moving train, passing through it as if it were nothing but air, and he vanished from the platform, the only sign of him left behind the raindrops that had fallen from the edge of his coat.