"No, it's not," Fabrice agrees, voice tightening as memories of that night replay in the back of his mind. He likes to think of himself as patient, but Fabrice has never been able to endure anyone talking cruelly of animals or anyone close to him. The witch at the bar had seemed to know every exact button to push to get him to react the way he did. "I wish I could say that I did," he admits with a bitter shake of his head. "But he cursed me and fled before I could even so much as land any kind of spell on him."

He tries to avoid violence, considering how much it defines his life. But he is, after all, a Coombs.

"I haven't yet," he says. "I don't want to trouble her, when she already has enough on her mind."