“Workaholics don’t tend to like scaling back. I’m familiar with the type.” The Stranges, for all their differences, had exhibited some similar streaks; his own father had probably worked his overtaxed heart into a coronary too soon. Heavy physical labour, early mornings in the field and stables, long days. God knows Stephen himself wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he was forced into a second retirement after sorcery.

“Well, I suppose you might have some more harmless busywork for him now that you’re Captain; perhaps there’s some paperwork you can foist off.”

There’s a thoughtful crinkle in his brow, a habitual paranoia still ticking over. Warily: “Since there’s no earldom to protect anymore,” sorry, he’s blunt sometimes, “that means he wouldn’t have any reason to kill me these days, does he?”

The concept of a shovel talk, belated as it would be, is much more unsettling if it’s coming from a not-so-retired assassin who knows exactly where he sleeps and how to get at him.