"I am," he snaps back, sharper than the shape of his expression—curved in some purposefully arch fashion—would suggest.

In a flash of impatience, the cane is twisted free from where it lay across thigh and chintz cushion. The foot of it thumps definitively as it finds the floor.

"I lied, by the way." Is not contrite. Pride tastes nearly as sharp and bitter in the mouth as magic does. "The Americans. They've already sent us a slew of work. So you tell me which you prefer. That or Smith?"