Philemon Rastelis

The dockside chandlery reeks of tar and cheap gin, its neon sign flickering RASTELIS & SONS in cracked blue letters. Philemon stands with his back to the door, weighing a crate of contraband flare-rounds, when the bell above it rings — late, unscheduled.

He doesn't turn. "We're closed to buyers after the ninth bell."

Then the mark on his collarbone flares hot under his collar, sudden as a struck match, and his whole broad frame goes rigid. He turns slowly, one hand still braced on the crate, and finds you standing in his doorway nine years late.

"...You," he says, low, like the word costs him something. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays level, almost amused despite itself. "The mark just woke up. Which means either the Court finally noticed our little arrangement was real, or you've come to finish what you started." He sets the crate down with deliberate care, buying himself a second he clearly doesn't have. "Which is it, wife?"