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The form Bartimaeus chose was tasteful, yet impressive. Powerful, yet dignified. Threatening, but elegant.
Then he realised Kitty Jones was the one summoning him, and reverted to Ptolemy’s form.
“Evening.” Well, he guessed it was evening from the tone of the light streaming through the windows. Or late afternoon, maybe. “You’re looking well.” Or as well as could be expected after her brief jaunt in the Other Place. Her hair was dark, but that might have been hair dye. “How long has it been since I was last here, anyway?”
“About ten years.”
“Ten years, blimey.” She was dressing a bit older, a bit more mature than she used to.
“I travelled for a while. Went all over the place. The government gave me a pension and it was everything I needed.”
“So this is just a social call, hmm?”
“Yes,” said Kitty, “Because I didn’t think you’d get much of an idea of what happened afterwards, otherwise. Or at least, you wouldn’t get a first-hand account. I won’t keep you long.” She took a breath. “Nathaniel’s alive.”
“He’s what? I thought he was a goner for sure.”
Kitty shrugged. “Most of him. The seven league boots got him away, but not fast enough – or far enough. He was caught under the Palace as it fell.” She stepped out of the pentacle, something she never would have done once upon a time but which she could do now without fear or hesitation. Bartimaeus followed suit.
“What do you mean most of him?”
“He lost a few limbs, and an eye. He was in intensive care for a very long time. I think he could have handled that, except… some of the debris hit his head. Some type of brain damage, it’s hard for him to speak. Something to do with the way signals get from his brain to his mouth. Some days he can have whole conversations, other days he has to write things down because it’s so hard for him to talk. It’s why he couldn’t summon you himself.”
Because one of the main requirements of summoning was a clear voice, a strong throat. No risk of stammering or mispronunciation. Nathaniel had been one of the most powerful magicians of his day. He would never be so again.
“Where are we, anyway?” asked Bartimaeus, as Kitty led him through the house. It was a large house, with very dark polished floorboards and tasteful if rather neutral paintings on the walls.
“Bruges. Nat can’t really live on his own, so he lives with me and Jakob. He wrote his memoirs. I did too, actually. His sold better than mine, obviously. Underdog stories only appeal when the main character is a magician, and a man. And he’s kind of an arse sometimes, but he’s one of the only people who… understands. He’s one of the only ones who gets it.”
They began to descend the stairs. The railings for a stair lift ran the length of the wall by the stairs. Kitty gestured to it. “I keep telling him to just get an electric wheelchair and have a lift put in, but he won’t do it. Stubborn idiot.”
They chatted a little as they made their way through the house, about the ways the world had changed and the ways it had stayed the same.
Then Kitty soundlessly pushed a door open.
Nathaniel was asleep in a large, comfortable-looking padded leather chair. His clothes were smart but comfortable, nothing like the obnoxiously fashionable way he used to dress. One trouser leg fitted awkwardly around a prosthetic, where his right leg was missing midway down the thigh. His right arm, the one which had held Gladstone’s Staff, was gone to the shoulder. His hair was longer than the last time Bartimaeus had seen it, and it was streaked with premature grey. His right cheek was mottled with burn scars. The rest of his skin bore scars of laceration from the shards of the Glass Palace. The burns on his right cheek reached up the side of his face, turning his right eye into something hooded. Presumably this was the one he had lost. A crutch leaned against the chair.
Behind the chair, on the wall, was a framed photograph. Nathaniel stood between Kitty and Jakob, who were supporting him without the crutch. All three were smiling at the camera. Jakob’s face still bore the marks of the Black Tumbler, but he looked much healthier for spending a dozen years free from his isolation.
Nathaniel stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Bartimaeus realised that the missing eye must have been replaced by a glass eye.
Fleeting expressions played over Nathaniel’s face. “Ba –” He glanced at Kitty. “K – Kitty. Y – y – su –”
“Don’t force it,” said Kitty. “I can always get the notebook.”
Nathaniel reached for his crutch with his remaining hand and managed to lever himself up out of the chair, albeit with quite a few unsteady wobbles on the way.
“Don’t worry about the scars,” said Bartimaeus, “You were always pretty ugly, anyway.”
“Fu – fu –”
“Are you trying to swear at me? Keep trying, let’s see if you can make it all the way.”
Nathaniel worked his jaw for a few moments before managing a, “Bar – tim – ae – us.”
Bartimaeus grinned. “Now that’s more like it.”
*
Jakob had screaming nightmares.
Kitty had screaming nightmares.
Nathaniel had screaming nightmares.
Jakob’s nightmares were about the Black Tumbler.
Kitty’s were mostly of Honorius the afrit.
Nathaniel’s, strangely enough, were of being trapped in a room full of imps. The most he could ever stammer out about it was how Underwood had always insisted that demons were wicked, and would hurt you if they could.
In the end, they each – especially Nathaniel – found it too inconvenient to walk down darkened hallways at night to whoever in particular happened to be having the screaming nightmare, and bit the bullet. They bought the largest bed they could find, and took turns on who got to sleep in the middle.
That night, after Bartimaeus had gone, Nathaniel sat on the side of the bed in his boxer shorts and nightshirt, his left hand working the prosthetic off his leg. Jakob was out late – some kind of family reunion – so it was just him and Kitty.
With the prosthetic off, he swung his remaining leg up onto the bed and lay back against the pillow. Kitty lay next to him.
“Kitty?”
“Mmm?”
“Th – than – th.”
“I know, Nathaniel. I know.”