Unlike his peacocking brother, Mildmay avoided mirrors when he couldn't. It wasn't like he needed one for deft fingers to pull his fox-red hair back in a simple plait, to be sure his simple black clothes – what they called jeans and a t-shirt here, along with his favorite jacket with all the hidden pockets – were neat and clean, or a reminder of the ugly knife scar that ran from his lip up the left side of his face into his hairline. But mostly, he didn't like looking himself in the eye.

The guy with a metal arm – Kethe – had a similar look. What Felix called hyper-vigilance, and Mildmay called not getting my dumbass killed 'cause of not paying fucking attention plus not gonna be anybody's clockwork dagger no more, taking everything in. Being fucking wary. It was exhausting. If the guy felt anything like Mildmay had when he showed up, no wonder he looked like shit.

"He ain't gonna be much help, if you got questions." Mildmay spoke slow, careful, hoping not to have to repeat himself to be understood around the scar that froze half his face and the accent that most people here seemed to think was from some place called Tennessee. "Other'n giving you a key and more towels than you could need."