“That wasn’t a bad story,” Warwick murmurs to himself. With a bit more of a flourish than strictly necessary, he claps the book shut, rising off the armchair so he can return it to its rightful place on Scylla’s bookshelf and pick out something to read next.

The only thing more aggravating than Priscylla’s cynicism is how often she’s right. As soon as he woke up from his nap, Warwick was assailed by aches and soreness, wincing from joint pains in places he didn’t even know he had joints. And even now, exactly as the self-styled conqueress predicted, a few bells of rest (coupled with light stretching– he still has some dignity) has eased the worst of the pains, no playing around with controlled substances necessary. He can already see the smug grin on her face.

A clattering of pots from the kitchen throws off Warwick’s train of thought, and it’s only through a warrior’s discipline that he doesn’t jump high enough to smack his head on the bookcase. Mrs. Falk must be working on dinner, he realizes as soon as his adrenaline glands quiet down.

Mrs. Falk, what an enigma. That was obviously her son, yelling at Scylla back in town, but he seemed rather a lot more focused on hurting Scylla than helping his late mother. That, and Priscylla is working on a copy of the same spell that reanimated Mrs. Falk to bring back Ma, so it’d probably be good to get more information… but on the other hand, it’d be rude to talk about Mrs. Falk behind her back…

Ah, screw it. No point in subtlety. Wick abandons his search for reading material and sets off to bother the undead housekeeper.

He finds Mrs. Falk furiously chopping up a fish, a pan of mushrooms already sizzling away atop the stove. Upon hearing him enter, Mrs. Falk looks up briefly and holds up a finger to ask for a second. Before Warwick’s eyes, the ice sculpture in the shape of a kindly old lady grips the deboned fish by the edges, and effortlessly rips it into filets with a strength that absolutely should not exist on her meager, slightly hunched frame. 

Unsure how to respond to such a feat, Warwick claps politely, taking a seat on one of the nearby bar stools.

Mrs. Falk rolls her eyes, and carefully places the fish filets atop the bed of mushrooms to saute. Her task done for now, she turns to Warwick, leaning against the counter. After a moment of awkward silence, she spins a hand in a circle, motioning for him to speak up.

“Oh!” Warwick springs to attention. “Right. Do you need any help with the cooking?” If there’s one thing he’s learned as a wandering hero, it’s how to start conversations on the right foot.

Mrs. Falk just waves him off, keeping a frozen eye on the pan as the fish and fungi fry.

“Oh, okay.” If there’s two things Warwick’s learned as a wandering hero, it’s how to start conversations and when to stop pushing. “Is it alright if I hang around and talk, then? Priscylla’s been hard at work all day, so I’m rather starved for conversation.”

Mrs. Falk shrugs and nods, motioning for him to talk again while she rummages in a cabinet for something.

“Thank you kindly. Mostly I’m just curious about you– what does a day in your life look like?”

After a moment of digging through the cabinet, Mrs. Falk surfaces with a simple book explaining the basics of reading and writing, a few blank sheets of parchment, and a slightly dull lead pencil. She gestures to the learning implements, she gestures to the sleeping dog in the corner– Genly, the younger one, Warwick thinks– and then she gestures to the supper cooking away on the stove.

“I see,” Warwick murmurs. Nice of Priscylla to educate her ward– or perhaps reeducate, if schooling was among the memories that Mrs. Falk was missing when she rose? And cooking… “Wait, you can’t eat, can you?” Warwick realizes his rudeness only after he asks. “That is, does Priscylla ask you to handle the cooking for her sake?”

Mrs. Falk pauses, then shakes her head no. Again she lifts a finger to ask Warwick’s patience, taking the pencil and carefully writing on the parchment. It’s slow going; Warwick can see the solid pencil rolling and shifting against the packed snow of her fingers. After a few moments she stops, satisfied, and turns the parchment around to show Warwick, in shaky script, the words I LIKE LEARNING TO DO THIGNS.

“Oh, is that right? Same here!” Warwick says with a grin. “Back when I was little, my father insisted that it wasn’t safe for me to learn how to ride a horse. Didn’t stop me from sneaking out at night and doing it anyway.”

Mrs. Falk bounces, as if mimicking a single snort-laugh with her breathless body. Again she picks up the stylus, trying to write something out, but the pencil slips, pressing deeper into the soft snow of her hands.

“Do you want me to grab a pen?” Warwick asks the question by reflex. “I have a good one in my backpack, if you want.”

After fixing him with a withering glare, Mrs. Falk adjusts her grip and begins writing something different. After a few seconds of quiet scratching, she flips the parchment around again to tell Warwick her message, INK FREEZES.

Warwick flinches. “Right. Sorry. I should have thought that through a little bit more, my apologies, ma’am.” Gently, he slides the paper back to her, where she immediately resumes writing. Heedless, he keeps talking. “I don’t mean to presume or anything, of course, I just want to try and make life a little easier for you if I can. Or make death a little easier. Is that the wrong thing to say? I’m sorry, I’m still a bit out of–”

He’s interrupted by Mrs. Falk pressing her sheet of paper back in his face, a trio of new lines added at the bottom. YOUR SWEET. I’M FINE. LIFE’S GOOD. For a moment, Warwick is reminded of his mother, telling him over and over that everything’s fine and he should take care of himself. If this kind of warmth persists through death… it doesn’t matter how cold everything else might get. 

“Alright. Alright, fair enough.” Warwick hops off the bar stool, stretching his legs a bit. “Thanks a bunch for your time, Mrs. Falk, I’ll let you finish dinner.” He turns to leave, still loosening his tight shoulders.

Mrs. Falk clicks her icy knuckles on the counter to grab his attention, holding up a finger once more. She gestures to the fish fry, very nearly done cooking. She points to the stairs that lead down to Priscylla’s lab. She pantomimes knocking, and finally points at Warwick.

Though Warwick may fancy himself an amateur detective, it doesn’t take much sleuthing to infer her meaning. “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am. I’ll tell her dinner’s ready.”

Mrs. Falk gives a thumbs up, her rigid features melting into a gentle smile, before returning to tending dinner.

Warwick, meanwhile, is already halfway down the stairs. Extra careful not to slip– virtually every surface in the cottage gets icy at some point– he jumps the last few steps and knocks away on the door. After a few moments of no reply, he knocks again, before finally opening the door out of concern for his nemesis’s safety.

There’s the faded traces of a used summoning circle on the floor, a trio of chairs pulled up around it. Priscylla is slumped over her workbench, shaving a crystal with a paring knife, and when she turns to look at him, her eyes are heavy and bloodshot. Again, even an amateur detective could tell what must have happened.

At once, Warwick is behind her, his arms draped over her shoulders in a hug. “Proud of you,” he breathes, trying to focus more on comforting her and less on rubbing against her hair. “How did it go?”

Priscylla lets out a long, guttering groan, leaning back into his embrace. “Fine. It went fine. The ritual didn’t go quite perfectly, but I have a perfect understanding of what few bugs I left in. From here on out, the summoning circle ought to perform without flaw.”

“Not what I meant,” Warwick says, trying to keep the words from sounding like an accusation. “How did it go for you?”

“I know, I know,” Priscylla grumbles. “And it was okay. They didn’t recognize me at all, but as soon as I explained things, they were wonderfully nice. I had to lie and say I’d summon them again, but I don’t have the remains for it. And I still feel really empty, even though I got everything I could have wanted.”

“Not everything, I don’t think,” Warwick replies, leaning over a bit further to check out the workbench. “They were nice to you, but they still forgot you, right? But you wanted them to look at you and instantly realize how much better you are now than you were then.” 

Priscylla bristles, her skin growing colder under his arms. “And why do you think you know that?”

No point in subtlety. “Because that’s pretty much exactly what I’m hoping for when we summon my Ma.” Carefully, he holds her a little closer despite the cold. “You can be happy with what you got and still be annoyed you didn’t get more.”

Immediately, the tension flows out of Priscylla. “Alright. Fair. Ugh. Stop knowing the right thing to say and just let me be angry.”

“No can do, Witch Queen. Making people feel better is part of the job description.”

“Fine. Fine.” Though she’s facing away from Warwick, he can feel Priscylla’s cheeks rise into a smile as she leans against his arm. “Oh, speaking of feeling better,” Priscylla muses. “Your rune already looks like it’s in much cleaner shape.” Her face shapes further into a smug grin, flush against his tattoo. “I believe this is where I say, I told you so.”

Warwick matches her smile. “Alright, alright, you win this round. It feels good to be recovered.”

“Recovering. Not recovered.” Finally, Priscylla breaks out of the hug, eyes flicking across her workbench. “I’m guessing that Mrs. Falk sent you down to grab me?”

“Good intuition,” Warwick responds, careful to brush her hair back into place as he detangles his arms from her.

“Oh, that’s nothing, watch me predict the entire night. First of all, I’ll clear up the last of this mess. Next, we’ll go upstairs and have a wonderful fish dinner.” With both hands, she presses deeply against her eyes to wipe the last of her tears. “Finally, we’ll break out some of my nicer liquor and get very, very drunk for solstice eve.”