Rain was already falling by the time Quinn stepped onto the porch.
It was a steady, misting rain, the sort that seemed harmless until it had soaked through every layer of clothing. The air smelled of wet stone, chimney smoke, and the metallic tang of the city waking for the day.
Roran stepped out behind him and pulled the door shut.
Without a word, he opened one umbrella and handed the other to Quinn.
Quinn accepted it on instinct.
"Thanks."
Roran gave a small grunt and opened his own umbrella.
Together, they stepped off the porch and onto the street.
Rain pattered softly above them.
For the first few moments, neither of them spoke.
The neighborhood was stirring to life. Curtains shifted in upper windows. Shopkeepers swept rainwater from their front steps. Workers in dark coats moved steadily through the streets, lunch pails in hand, heads lowered against the weather.
Quinn kept pace beside Roran with unsettling ease.
He knew where the uneven stones were.
He knew which corners collected standing water.
He knew the route so well his feet hardly seemed to need instructions.
None of that knowledge belonged to him.
Yet it felt natural all the same.
After half a block, Quinn glanced at the folded newspaper tucked beneath Roran's arm.
"May I see the paper?"
Roran looked over, mildly surprised.
"You don't usually read on the walk."
"I thought I'd take another look."
Roran studied him for a moment, then handed it over.
"Careful not to walk into a cart."
Quinn managed a faint smile.
"I'll try."
He unfolded the newspaper as they walked.
The headline from breakfast still dominated the front page.
CIVIC REGISTRY CONFIRMS INCIDENT — STATE NINE CONTAINED
His eyes moved over the article again.
State Nine.
Lost their Anchor.
Contained.
The language was clean and detached, reducing the collapse of a human being to a handful of clinical phrases.
Loss of stabilizing influence.
Resulting behavioral deviation.
Containment successful.
Quinn read the lines twice, trying to understand how something so catastrophic could be described so calmly.
"Morning, Mister Hatchlock!"
Quinn looked up.
A boy of about thirteen stood beneath the awning of a small street stand stacked with newspapers, wrapped pastries, and tins of tobacco. Rain dripped from the edge of the canvas overhead, but the boy's grin was bright enough to cut through the gray morning.
Recognition surfaced at once.
Tomas Weaver.
One of his students.
Bright, eager, and endlessly fascinated by anything involving swords.
Quinn lowered the newspaper.
"Morning, Tomas."
Tomas shifted a stack of papers to one side.
"Don't forget the fencing club starts up again Monday."
Quinn blinked.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then memories rose.
A handful of students gathered in the schoolyard after classes.
Wooden practice swords.
Footwork drills.
Historical fencing manuals spread across his desk.
What had begun as a small extracurricular project had become one of the most popular clubs at the school.
The answer came before Quinn had time to think.
"I haven't forgotten."
Tomas grinned.
"Good. I've been practicing."
"That means you're taking it seriously."
"Yes, sir."
Another customer approached the stand, and Tomas straightened.
"See you Monday, Mister Hatchlock."
"See you Monday, Tomas."
The boy waved as Quinn and Roran continued down the street.
Roran glanced sideways at him.
"Your little club seems popular."
Quinn folded the newspaper under one arm.
"It keeps them interested."
"In swordfighting?"
"In history."
Roran snorted.
"If you say so."
Quinn smiled despite himself.
They continued through the rain.
The conversation shifted to smaller things.
Roran mentioned a delayed freight shipment from the eastern line.
Quinn commented on how quickly Calder seemed to outgrow his boots.
Roran wondered whether Elin would ever learn to walk anywhere instead of sprinting.
Quinn said he doubted it.
The exchange was ordinary.
Comfortably so.
The streets widened as they moved farther from home.
The low rumble of machinery and the distant whistle of steam began to cut through the rain.
Ahead, the freight yards spread across several blocks of track, warehouses, and smoke.
Roran slowed.
"This is me."
Quinn stopped beside him.
Workers streamed through the gates, collars raised against the weather.
Roran adjusted his grip on his lunch.
"You remember the way to the mill?"
The question was casual, but Quinn heard the concern beneath it.
He nodded.
"I do."
Roran studied him for a moment, then gave a single approving nod.
"Good."
He hesitated, then rested a hand briefly on Quinn's shoulder.
"Have a good day."
The gesture was simple, steady, and deeply familiar.
Quinn met his eyes.
"You too."
Roran squeezed his shoulder once and turned toward the freight yards.
Quinn stood where he was for a moment, watching him disappear into the stream of workers.
Rain tapped steadily against his umbrella.
The newspaper rested beneath his arm.
The mill waited farther down the road.
Quinn drew a slow breath and turned to continue alone.