"Or conduct anything else at all, it appears."

"Yeah. I get the impression there was an element of vengeance to it. Someone to blame for all the death and destruction." He shrugs. "Anyway. I could take a week to get all of these airtight, but I think I don't want to keep her waiting any longer. Even if she notices they're forged, she's going to know that no one but me could have forged them, which is the important thing."

He finishes the final letter and seals it. It disappears into his coat, and the rest of the stack goes to James.

"This one I'll send from Poland the normal way, I'm going to pick right back up on sending regular letters from here on out. Please pick up German stamps for all of them, and try to make them look like they've seen some kind of bureaucratic Hell. You saw the letters she got, you're going to be better at forging the outsides than I would be."

He nods. "Will do. Good luck with control."

"Thanks. Good luck with being heroic for pretty people, it was nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you, too!"

...and he zips away.

The trip back is significantly shorter—he's not tracking anyone, just running. He stops places to make the forgery look more real—stamps and whatnot—but doesn't dawdle. He really wants to get back. Who knows what else Yvette got up to in this month away. She could have decided to come track Blair herself, and that would be a terrible, terrible idea for a human. He puts that thought out of his mind.

And he arrives, a few days later. He has a bundle of letters, an overcast day (thank you, England), and a fist with which to knock—

—wait, first, is Yvette in?

Not at the moment, no. Her father is, though.

...he'll wait for her. He sits on the roof.

After a couple of hours, here is Yvette, dressed in a nurse's uniform and looking tired and vaguely unhappy.

Oh. Oh good. He—

—should wait a bit. It wouldn't do to look like he's stalking her. He'll wait, hmm, half an hour.

He can hear her going about her business inside. She calls a greeting to her father, and gets one back. She fixes a very quick dinner for the both of them. One plate gets delivered to her father's room, the other is eaten alone at a table by the window.

Half an hour elapses.

She's so sad.

He knocks.

She huffs a sigh and drags herself out of her chair and to the door, and—

There she is, blinking at him politely.

"—hi. Yvette, right? I, uh." Why is he blanking? Get a hold of yourself man. "Blair's letters," he says instead, handing them to her.

Yvette takes them automatically, at first not registering that sentence.

Then:

"Wait, what? He's, but—" she fumbles with the letters, flipping through them to look at the addresses and senders. "—but, what, you, how?"

He shrugs, recovering some of his composure. "Germany's a mess, apparently? Because of the war sanctions, they and bureaucracy there is in shambles. These got all held forever."

"So he's fine," she says, staring at him. "He's fine and it was just a, a stupid mixup after all."

"Yeah. He's alive and writing letters."

"How did you find them?"

She hugs the stack of letters close to her heart, like she's afraid that if they aren't kept so close, they'll disappear into smoke.

"I have a knack for these things, and I know people in lots of places."

"You—" she pauses, then squints at him. "... I've seen you before. You were, um, at the post office? You overheard me missing some letters a month ago and, and. Just went and found them?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that was me."

She remembers him!!!

She doesn't appear to have any idea of what to say to that.

"Well, thank you," she says, after a pause.

"You're welcome," he says primly.

"Do you want, um, some kind of payment for services rendered, or, or something?"

"—no, no, of course not. I—you just seemed very sad."