“I’m aware,” he says, as neutrally as he can, a little arch. Although he didn’t know Richard, the man’s mere existence here had been a mild relief when the sorcerer first arrived: a reason to not try to throw his weight around the position, as someone else had already carved out the territory. Another man about his own age, enough to leave well enough alone. Stephen had noted Loxley’s announcement, filed it away in the back of his mind.

(And there’s an alien memory from Arlathan lodged there too, like something caught in his teeth, which he’ll probably never get to ask the man about. A voice, echoing in his ears: Fucking blood magic, Dickerson, really?)

Between that and Sidony’s departure, the faces around the infirmary have become fewer and fewer.

And it’s that idle thought, connecting the dots like a pinball bouncing off Derrica’s words, which makes Stephen’s hands go still on a pile of bandages and his head cocks, swivels to look at her more closely. As he realises where this train of thought might be taking them. He could be coy, fish around and make her explain the gist, but he presses right on it instead like pressure on a wound:

“Are you thinking about job vacancies?”