The hard jab into August's shoulder was something he felt deep in the dream he was currently having, which involved a dark, inscrutable stranger drinking tea in the chair opposite him.

"Now, August, or we'll be late." His eyes popped open as the hands shook roughly at his shoulders. He woke with a disjointed sense of vertigo, the slats of the bedding overhead superimposed with the air of his dream, and he turned his head to see the lined and heavily disparaging face of Sairne.

"Saints above and below..." He scrubbed at his eyes as Sairne moved to stand in the doorway. She was dressed in her shimmering suit with her usual implacability, which August found unfair considering her magics allowed her such easy transitions. "I didn't think I'd fall asleep." He slurred, the final word lifting with a yawn. He fished a pair of pants from his wardrobe and hopped into them, his thoughts and movements shrouded in gauze as he as he slid on the white shirt, a vest, and grabbed a nicer jacket then he usually wore from the front of the closet before folding it over his arm and bending to lace up his shoes. He studied Sairne as she stood expectant in the doorway. "Did you sleep at all?"

"I tried."

"Me too." He said as he shrugged his jacket on.

"Fortunately you succeeded."

August sped down the stairs, taking two at at time. Sairne, coming along behind him, did no such thing.

“You’re going to be late.” Laura sat at the kitchen table, the curtains drawn, a glass of water in one hand and the morning newspaper in the other. She let the latter fall against the table as she spun to them, draping a hand across the back of the chair. “Don’t mess this up.”

Darin stood in the kitchen, pouring coffee to precision at the line of his mug, his fastidious focus of this duty a byproduct of what Laura had dubbed his 'great idiosyncrasy.' He glanced up at them and, upon finishing his perfect pour, set the coffee pot down.

"Ah, you're finally awake."

"Got enough for me?" August managed before Sairne took hold of his jacket's lapel and nearly yanked him out the door. The sun was blaring and the quaint street of La'Fe was populated by market goers, businessmen, and women strolling along with small dogs scurrying about their legs. August frowned down at his naked wrist as Sairne shut the door behind them. She took the stairs quickly, hands in her pockets.

Their argument hadn't fizzled out. If anything, he figured it had only made her gloomier. He trailed behind her like a reluctant shadow as they navigated the considerable distance to the train station. Its engines and horn were audible from even their tucked away townhouse, but the smog and clutter of its tracks far enough away that they never had to tolerate rattling windows. August became so absorbed in obsessing over what, exactly, Sairne might be stewing over that when she once more tugged at his shirt to pull him from the street he nearly shouted. He brushed at his shirt and swore when she let go, having successfully crammed them both down a wide alley.

"Saints, Sairne, I'm not a rag doll."

"Look," Sairne's voice was low and he saw her nod to indicate someone standing just a few paces from where they huddled. It was a short, stout man with a bowler hat, leaning against a newly installed steel column meant to prevent cars from careening into pedestrians. Every so often he'd poke his head over the top of the newspaper he held. August cursed and sidled past Sairne, who reached to try and stop him. Once the man caught sight of him, he tried to futilely bring the paper closer to his face, brandishing its flimsiness like a shield.

"Erringer, I know it's you." When August peeked to the side the man shifted the paper to cover his face. He did this again when August attempted peer over the top of his head.

"I-I'm not sure what you mean, sir." The voice had a timorous quality August had never able to tell was purposeful or real. He crushed a hand down the center of the paper and watched the man named Erringer lean back, eventually breaking into a smile when he realized he could no longer pretend to not recognize them. "Oh, why hello, August! What a surprise."

"What are you doing here?"

"Reading, old boy, thought that rather obvious-"

"You know what I mean." By now Sairne had come to join him, frowning, and Erringer's eyes flickered to her before settling back on August.

Bartholomew Erringer was a member of the Ecclesiastical's more pedestrian facilities, assigned to keep an eye on August and Sairne when occasion called for monitoring them. The last time he'd seen Erringer had been several months ago, when Bell had first gone missing. The Ecclesiastical had placed them under what had amounted to house arrest, with Erringer standing outside their townhouse, whistling into the night. August wasn't entirely sure how such a doughy man and his never-seen guardian were supposed to defend them or prevent them from leaving, but he didn't think endlessly questioning the pair's aptitude would ever yield an answer. Erringer had been their designated baby-sitter for several years now.

"I'm not big on patience today, so you better tell me what you're doing here."

"You both know how it is, Riley and I were just told to sidle up, keep you under our noses for a little extra protection." He removed his hat to reveal a small chameleon sitting atop his head, the same color as his brown hair. Riley waved a two-pronged hand in greeting before Erringer's replaced cap shut him back into darkness.

"Protection?" Sairne asked. Erringer shrugged.

"What would we need protection from?" August said.

"Ah, I'm afraid on that my lips are sealed."

"Unseal them."

He sighed. "You're a bit of a sore subject right now, I'm afraid. Last night's events got Jerry in his mind to take you back to the Steep, but I told him 'listen, Jer, calm down, John'll put the screws on 'em and we'll sort this whole thing out.'"

John was Ruckus's first name, legally, and August knew he didn't often like to be called by it. Though he didn't like Ruckus much either.

"That doesn’t answer my question.” August said.

“I, ah, can’t answer it regardless. It’s with deep regret, I assure you."

August resisted the urge to make a show of his annoyance. “Are you going to follow us everywhere now?”

"Because we're such good friends." Sairne delivered flatly.

Erringer smiled at her, either ignorant of the sarcasm or ignoring it, and accompanied them as they continued their trek to the station. The smell of coal thickened with the crowd, and soon they were in queue to take the stairs up to the station, waiting on the next train. When it came they were jostled into it alongside Erringer. August had gotten over a slight fear of the train, but Sairne was always serenely unaffected by the fact that they were packed like sardines in a moving metal box that chugged along nearly thirty feet above the street. When they'd been younger their parents had seen the emergence use of it as an unsightly necessity, and August imagined them rolling in their graves knowing their son was taking it daily to work.

The rattling journey was quick enough and soon August, Sairne, and Erringer were deposited at the grandiose terminal of Central's main station. It was an old building that was virtually always full, the scattered patterns of the major arcana spread across its ceiling in a brilliant painting of both scale and detail. Sairne's alignment was not depicted, but it didn't stop August from imagining crawling up there to sketch the spread of her soul's stars himself.

Carriages and cars fought for room on the road outside of the station and people rushed across during a rare lull, the beeping of horns was a constant accompaniment to the sounds of the whistling train, the chug of wheels, the rustle of conversation. The three blocks to the Patrol headquarters was a familiar walk, and when they rounded the corner the splendor of Babel park beckoned like a bottleneck to eden. It was the largest park in the city, practically a neighborhood all its own, and one of the few places that August and Sairne could wander that resembled the upstate wilds they had grown up knowing.

In a gargolyian contrast, the stately and gothic headquarters of the Patrol sat across like unwelcome cloud cover.

They walked along its tree-lined perimeter as they sped to the station, August's pace so brisk that Sairne had to jog to keep up and the much shorter Erringer had to practically run. Erringer smiled in relief after they arrived, bending to grab at his knees in exhaustion. Sweat dotted his forehead and he rose to pull a handkerchief to dab at it before bidding them good luck.

"I suspect we'll have to talk about that." Sairne glanced over her shoulder to where Erringer had taken up position against one the light posts, unfolding the paper to busy himself.

August grunted, "I'll add it to the list."