At the mention of Nill’s name, Damian’s expression softens, just enough to be a visible change. He purses his lips for a moment, and then shrugs. “It would be a bit ridiculous of me not to, considering I originally made the plans for her.”

Sitting at the corner table, on a long-legged chair perfect in a modernly designed placed like this, Damian swings his legs, his feet never quite touching the floor. He’s dressed like a little man: collared shirt and slacks, but with a loose hoodie on top to provide his trademark security blanket. It’s a strange image he creates, as he steeples his fingers and gives Kate a long look.

“You seem to have adapted fairly well,” he says blandly, wondering at that. He’s impressed, vaguely, by any civilian who doesn’t dissolve into hysteria.