"Jemis, it's half eleven; time and past for all good souls to be abed," Benneret said as he nudged his stepson's door open and saw the boy bent over his desk, beeswax candle burning like a defiant shout against the thick, sleepy darkness of the summer night.

"Oh!" Jemis said, startling to his feet and whirling to face the door; "Sorry, sir -- I lost track of time and didn't realize I was wasting the light."

"You've no need to worry over the cost of candles," Benneret assured the boy, wondering for the thousandth time how to break the pane of awkwardness that had lain between them since Jackory Greenwing had returned to life and died again within a single month. He ventured into the room to rest his hand on Jemis's shoulder and added, "I only meant that the mind is part of the body and requires similar care. Your books will be waiting in the morning, and you'll face your studies better with a good night's sleep and some of your mother's excellent breakfast in your stomach."

"Yes, sir," Jemis said, expression and posture screaming his own, equal sense of awkwardness, but he pressed back against Benneret's hand for a moment, chasing that contact, before he turned to put away his books and pen and pinch out the light.