"I am wretched," Pyotr informs her. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy with lack of sleep, as well as a self-evident hangover. Yet instead of hiding under a pile of blankets or curling up in his bathtub to wait it out, he's sitting slouched over his drafting table, toying with some small object that he finally tosses Fever's way.

"I don't think it's going to come to life," he says quietly of the little glass gecko, about a length of a finger, made from swirls of pink and green glass. "There must have been a second part to the magic that only Efrain could perform."