"There's a man here who is a magician, like you. He has a great deal of power, I want to be upfront about that so you know. I don't know whether he's dangerous, though I know I was in no danger from him."

Sagramore is trying not to pace, but the urge is there -- he's restless, anxious, in spite of how certain he is of his purpose. He wishes, for approximately the thousandth time today, that he had a drink.

"He was my lover. I still love him, Christ, I love him tremendously, but he told me something about himself that I can't overlook, as much as I want to. I left him. But the thing is -- he's so guarded. He shields himself against other people. I don't think he'd let anyone know him before me, not for centuries, and certainly not love him. I don't know whether he even has friends here, but I don't think so. And I'm worried about him. I-- Christ, I hurt him but I'm afraid for him to be hurt--" He rakes his hands back through the mess of curls that's become shaggy and started to fall into his eyes at times. "I want to ask you to look in on him. I just want to know he's-- I love him. I want someone to care whether he's all right. And because you're a magician, I think he's less of a danger to you, if he's a danger to anyone any more. I trust you."