It must be nice, Artemy thinks bitterly, to be able to pack it all up into one night. Not have it spill out into every waking moment. Have it ache into your bones, your hands, into everything you see and do.

The Haruspex felt himself bitter and angry at the thought. Not at Fever. Not at the people, not really.

Maybe at himself?

Who's to say.

"I see. And I'm assuming you'll be in attendance?" He says curtly.