The next morning, Warwick blinks awake long before dawn, woken from restless slumber by the biting cold. Priscylla’s cabin is solidly built, and her guest room has a truly momentous supply of extra blankets, but the chill air on his face is still enough to rouse him bright and early.

Rather, it’s enough to rouse him early; the bright side of “bright and early” could use a little help. As soon as he’s scrubbed down his face, he sets to work at his other morning rituals, cracking open his pack for a little pick-me-up or two. By the time he’s dressed and ready to leave his room, the sun has risen and he’s back to his usual high spirits.

When he does make his way to the kitchen, it doesn’t take him a sleuth to realize Mrs. Falk got here first; there’s bread cooking in the oven, the counters are piled high with eggs and bowls, and the cabinets are damp, as though someone ran an icy cold washcloth over them. Not wanting to get in the undead chef’s way, Warwick grabs a mug of clean water and settles back down in the living room.

He doesn’t have to wait long– a few minutes of watching the snowfall is all it takes to hear activity from the master bedroom, and a minute after that, out stumbles Scylla, bleary-eyed and still running a comb through her hair. “Oh, good, you’re up. Did you sleep okay?”

“G’morning,” Warwick offers with a beaming smile. “I got pretty frosty, not used to being this far up North, but other than that it was great.”

“Okay, neat. I’m glad.” Finally finished brushing her hair, Scylla sets down the comb, before double-taking in the counter’s direction. “You didn’t move anything around in the kitchen, did you? Mrs. Falk can’t stand having her organization messed with.”

Warwick quickly shakes his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Not least because I don’t have a clue where you actually stow anything.” He pauses a moment. “Where is Mrs. Falk, anyhow?”

“I asked her last night to walk the dogs first thing today.” Finally, Scylla flops down on the couch beside him. “Normally I’d do it myself after breakfast so that the field can warm up a bit, but I’m going to have to head down to the lab and work overtime, so this is my only break of the day.” With practiced skill, she burrows her shoulders into the deepest corner of the cushions. “Besides, she and the dogs can’t feel cold, so it’s hardly rough on them.”

Warwick nods. “Makes sense. Nice of her to agree to extra work, either way.”

Scylla half-snorts. “Please. She gets fussy if I don’t give her enough to keep busy with. Reminds me of…” She opens her mouth again, but rethinks whatever she was about to say, blushing faintly. “Anyways! Plans! Sorry to leave you alone, but I’m going to spend the whole day working.”

“Hardly a problem. I’ve got a busy day ahead of myself, too!” One by one, Warwick lists tasks off on his fingers. “I wanted to take a closer look at your bookshelves, I have to keep up on my exercise regimen, I need to go back into town and get some extra grease to fix the hinges on my gauntlets…” Wick trails off. “You’re staring.”

If Scylla hears him, she doesn’t show it. Her piercing brown eyes are locked directly on his center of mass, her lips working faintly as she mumbles something to herself. The overall effect is uncomfortably reminiscent of being a bug under a magnifying lens– a bizarre but not altogether unpleasant experience, in Warwick’s mind.

After a good few seconds of holding still, Warwick politely clears his throat. “Is something the matter? Did I track mud in again?”

Priscylla’s eyes refocus, firmly locking with his. “Wick.” She says the syllable as an accusation. “If I were to ask you how many enchantments you’re under right now, how many would you say?”

Warwick grimaces, already seeing where this is going. “Only two strong ones, and then maybe six or seven little charms.”

“Do not lie to a witch.” Her tone brooks no negotiation; Warwick’s stomach drops, reminded in an instant of just why he was once so afraid of the woman before him. Priscylla continues, looming over him now that she’s once again sitting up straight. “I count no fewer than twelve temporary enhancements, ten of which were applied just this morning. I thought we talked about this the last time you visited.” She inclines her chin, demanding a response.

“This is a normal amount for me,” Warwick protests lamely, his hand drifting towards the frostbite scar on his stomach. “I had even more than this yesterday.”

“Yesterday I’d assumed you were pumping yourself full of magic to get an edge in our little battle.” Fine, twinkling mists begin to spiral around the couch where they both sit as Priscylla’s voice rises. “Obviously, I was wrong, and drinking four different tonics of stamina is just a normal day for you. Correct?”

Her tone is beginning to rankle at Warwick. “Look, I know my limits.”

“Speaking as a practitioner of magic,” Priscylla replies, tone imperious, “anyone who says ‘I know my limits’ is already veering much too close to those limits. Have you ever seen what happens to someone who overdoses? In the absolute best case, your bodyshaping rune would shatter under its own weight. It’s already starting to get hazy.”

Wick rolls his eyes. “Come on, cut me some slack. I know you’re an authority on this, and I trust your judgment and all, but this is just a part of the job I need to work with. I can handle some potions.”

“Warwick Wheelwright, you are currently on enough stimulants to rouse a hibernating bear.” Feathery lines of frost are beginning to form on Priscylla’s face as she spits the words. “The reason you ‘need to work with’ those dreadful things is because your body is forming a reliance on them, and if you don’t kick the habit I doubt you’ll live to see your fortieth birthday.”

“So? That’s my choice to make,” Warwick growls, loose snow collecting in his hair. “I’m more than happy doing whatever it takes to myself if it means I can help even one more person the way I’m helping you.”

Priscylla flinches like she was punched, before narrowing her eyes.“Then consider this returning the favor,” she hisses, lifting a hand and snapping her fingers with the sound of sheet ice cracking.

Instantly, Warwick feels like he was slammed in the chest, breathing heavily as years’ worth of exhaustion catches up with him. His eyelids flutter, and he lets out a yawn for what must be fifteen straight seconds before falling back dazed. “What… did you…”

“Asking you as your friend to take a break clearly never worked,” Priscylla says, breathing heavily, “So as your fated enemy, I’m forcing the issue. I’ve flushed the magic out of your system, with the lone exception of a protection charm so that withdrawal doesn’t knock you off your feet.”

“Ugh.” Warwick tries to sit up straighter, but it takes a few tries thanks to his discombobulation. “And you want me to, what, just swear off helping people? If you’re trying to win me over, this is a poor way to do it.”

“What I want is for you to take a break.” Priscylla rises, brushing off her dress, and places the pillow she was leaning on within Warwick’s reach. “From where I stand, I think it’s pretty obvious that you do too much, burn yourself out, and then try to manage the burnout with quick solutions.”

“So putting me on bed rest is your way of breaking the cycle?” Warwick yawns again. “Forgive me if I don’t thank you for the favor.”

Priscylla’s face is impassive. “Then don’t consider it a favor. Consider it a deal. Spend today relaxing, and tomorrow have an honest look at if you really need to put so much pressure on yourself. In exchange, I’ll do all the setup for your summoning ritual myself. Clear?”

“Alright, fine,” Warwick groans. “But you’re a real ass for casting spells at your own guest, I hope you know.”

Scylla just shrugs. “I’m sure someday I’ll face judgment at the end of your blade, but I’m not about to apologize for caring about you. In the meantime, if you want any natural, non-magical stimulants, ask Mrs. Falk to make you some coffee when you get up.” With that, she’s off to her lab, and in his last moments before sleep, Warwick curses his soft heart that he already wants to thank her.