The candle draws the moths down, one or two or half a dozen at a time awakening and going towards the bright heat. They crunch between the gloves like ice underfoot. It's meditative, in a way.

They're pretty! Crunch crunch.

It takes a while, but the floor is eventually covered with meltwater and insect husks, and the ceiling is clear. "Thank you," the Chandleress says with a relieved sigh, handing over a pouch of rostygold. "Here's what I'd have spent on the poison to fumigate, plus a bit since I don't have to clear the workshop for the day. You're a lifesaver."

"You're welcome! Happy to help!"

And now how much money does he have?

The Chandleress gave him two hundred fifty rostygold - enough that he'll have no trouble feeding himself even after paying for the Singer's fee.

Oh good! Then - well, it's getting pretty late, but the next day he can go buy some honey and bring the honey and the mandrake to the Singer.

The Singer receives him with a gracious curtsey, then takes the honey bottle from his hand and secrets it away into a hidden pocket. "Thank you very much."

She takes the mandrake out of its jar and beholds it. It beholds her, in turn.

She sings a high note. The mandrake cocks its head quizzically, then attempts to imitate her. It's rather flat, and very loud. She winces, then shrugs. "I've heard worse. You can run along - I'll have your vegetable singing Die Zauberflöte soon enough. Call it four hours a day until we're both satisfied?"

"Seems reasonable! Should I be back for it in four hours, then?"

"Yes, four hours and I'll have a good estimate of where its talents lie."

He beams delightedly at her. "Thank you!" he says, and takes his leave, again with that absent-minded courtesy.

So, four hours. What shall he do with four hours? Maybe he'll wander the streets some more and see if he sees anything new and interesting in places yet unexplored.

As he's crossing Hater's Bridge, he may hear the leathery flap of wings above. Not the quick wingbeats of the average bat - slower, more intense.

He hears it, all right.

It would probably be prudent to grab that Aeolian Scream out of his pocket and smash it, but prudence is slow and instinct is fast; he draws his knife instead.

There's a high-pitched giggle from above him, and the wings descend.

He feels a searing pain as the Vake's claws tear across his torso, cutting through the suit the Widow gave him.

For the first time he can remember since waking up, his body feels wrong. Too small, too weak, too slow, too fragile, he's turning to face it already when it hits but he's not fast enough, he slashes at it with his knife but he can't strike hard enough—

It takes him a few more seconds to remember, but then he fumbles in his pocket for the Scream.

When it hits the ground, there's a sound like if lighting could sing. Not like thunder - it's too high, too pure, too crystalline for that.

The Vake staggers drunkenly off of him, clutching its wings to its head.

All his instincts are screaming that he should attack while it's weak, grab it and rip its wings off, tear it to pieces and scatter the pieces.

His instincts seem badly misinformed about his actual capacity to injure this thing. He takes another ineffectual swipe at it with the knife, then draws a deep steadying breath and tells himself very firmly that there's no use in fighting when he's so badly outmatched, and sheathes the knife and turns and bolts.

It doesn't follow.

Right. Okay. So that happened.

What's his first priority here? —Probably tending these scratches. He checks them; they don't feel all that bad but last time something didn't feel all that bad he was advised to go see a doctor about it, and they are bigger and bloodier than the shoulder wound, so off to the doctor he goes. Same one as last time, since last time seems to have worked out fine.

The Suspicious-Looking Physician asks no questions, just takes a handful of rostygold and cleans out the wound and stitches him up and puts a bandage over the affected area. "Since you're here again, want me to check on that shoulder? No extra charge."

"Sure, thanks!"

The Physician lifts off the bandage and washes off the crusted blood to reveal... nothing.

"Would you look at that," he says blandly.

"Is that not supposed to have happened?" he says, twisting his head to blink down at his unmarked shoulder. He has the vague feeling that it may not be supposed to have happened, but he also doesn't find himself all that surprised by it.

"Not typically," he says, tossing the bandage into a waste bin. "I'd've said that wound would stick around for a week or two, but it's gone. You ever been to the Elder Continent? They can do things like that to a body."

"Not that I know of, anyway."

The Physician shrugs. "Well, it's a good thing for you, at any rate."