Would you believe I've been too busy wallowing in self-pity to think about Ione? You're right. We should be good to her. 

We should have done better by Catherine. There's probably nothing we could have done to stop Alfirin, or save any part of her, but we didn't even notice while her soul was eaten alive from the inside. I thought – last year, we talked about the revolution, and her family, and we didn't exactly apologize but we did make our peace with each other, and I have no idea if any of her was left. She was my friend once, and for all I know she died hating me. 

I honestly don't know how much I should even be thinking about them as separate entities. It does seem horrible, though, to not even really be dead, to be - erased, written over like an old book no one wanted. It's strange to think she could have not noticed, could have avoided saying anything, unless of course she wanted to become the the person she is now and didn't want us interfering, but - I don't know. I guess if we can turn her into a book, we'll know for sure.

I keep trying to think whether there's some way to restore her. I can't think of anything. - well, one, which might or might not work, and would require erasing Alfirin the same way. But I can't think of any way that we'd recover both of them. It'd require creating a soul, or at least copying one, to do it right, and that isn't the sort of thing even Nefreti Clepati just does in a couple of months.

Even Nefreti Clepati doesn't know everything. 

– and he hopes he can't sound petulant over a telepathic bond. 

Naima, I'm in Isarn – he sends her an impression – and I don't want to go home right now. I know you can't take any time off work, and I'll spot you the teleports, but – can you come?

Yeah. Give me half an hour to wrap up here and take the apprentices home, and I can be there.

So he waits. Gets a drink, why not. Asks if there's anything good at the Opéra just now and listens to the tavern-keeper and a young officer compete to describe the merits of the new soprano, who is – he is reliably informed – a very nightingale and blessed by Shelyn, if perhaps a trifle breathy on the high notes. For a moment, he is acutely homesick. 

Naima brings her work to a stopping place and disentangles herself from the various teenagers she's working with today, and then she can be in Isarn, where Élie was when he sent the impression. Which is her last teleport for the day, so he'd better be around.

Here. On the bridge.