Twenty million people were dead and London was going insane with joy. Bunting and bands and confetti filled the street as men, women, and children were out and about, waving the Union Jack and screaming their heads off about victory. The streets were packed with carriages and horses and motorcars and people, almost as much as it was packed with marching soldiers. Peering through the window of the Arthur-Perry's family's ancestral townhouse, Vane Vilimont was working his way through his third cigarette of the morning. The cigarette was clutched between fingers that were only half there - shimmering, opalescent echoes of fingers which had once been hale and hearty and true. His breath came through with gurgling, grinding effort.
"Phosgene," he growled out with his ruined voice.
The other man in the townhouse had come through the war without a scratch.
Of course he had.
He was in cavalry.
"The Mundanes really put us through it, eh old chap?" James Arthur-Perry said, sipping from the one of the cups that the staff had brought for the two men. The teapot was stirring itself and as Vane held out his still physically present hand, the teapot poured itself and the cup smoothly whirred through the air to end up in his hand. Vane drank it down without noticing it and made a face. He put his back to the cheering crowds and glared at James.
"Understatement doesn't suit you, James," he rasped. "It doesn't make you sound witty. It just makes you sound stupid."
James pursed his lips.
"Why did you call me here, Vane? Is it to rake over old coals?" James asked. "We've done everything we could for you - healing magic has a bloody hard time with gas injuries." He coughed as Vane's face twisted with anger. Bitterness. "The King gave you a medal-"
"I don't care about medals. I don't care about..." Vane dragged on the cigarette. The hideous burning sensation in his lungs let him focus better. "...
mundane
trinkets." He stubbed out the cigarette on the wall. James frowned, then set his cup aside.
"Vane," he said. "If you come here just to throw a fit, I'll have to ask you to leave before you make a scene."
The faint sound of a wailing baby echoed up the stairs. James ignored it with the casual indifference of a man who had hired enough nursemaids and servants to pamper a child into silence after any complaints. He kept his eyes focused on Vane as the other man glared down at him. Then, with a serious effort of will, Vane breathed in, then breathed out. He breathed out nicotine smoke, and then began to hack and cough as his scarred lungs threw the eminently predictable fit. He touched his hand to his chest - and green-gray light flared under his palms. The coughing subsided.
"I didn't come here to throw a fit, James," Vane rasped. "I came here to talk to you about what comes after." He gestured. "The Mundanes threw the world into the fire and we followed after them. That's not how the world's
supposed
to work." He frowned at him while James shifted in his seat.
"We had treaties-" James started.
"Hang the treaties," Vane's ruined voice grew even fiercer. "Four years of war, a third of every boy-wizard in the whole Empire dead, a third of the survivors maimed." He held up his hand - the stump of the arm and the glittering, half-real hand. "And for what? For some
mundane
Archduke and some Slavic rabble?"
James shifted in his seat, then drank another sip of tea. The wailing baby grew quiet - while the door to the room opened and a rather harried looking Lillian Arthur-Perry stepped in. She was dressed like a Magister's wife from before the war - meaning her fashion was considered downright dowdy and conservative by modern standards. Broad brimmed hat, flowing robes, her house pin on her breast. Her wand was tucked into her belt - and Vane noticed with bitter amusement that it was a Lolipan's mass produced wand.
She stated upon seeing him. "Vannie!" she said, sounding shocked - and halfway close to pleased. "James, you didn't say Vannie was visiting."
"He arrived rather unexpectedly," James said, standing up, giving his wife a polite seat.
"Well, I'm glad to see you out of that awful Mundane uniform," Lillian said, smiling at Vane's clothing - a dapper civilian outfit. "That khaki and tin hat? I know it's war, but did they have to make it so dreary."
"How is Harry?" Vane asked.
"Oh, he should be all right," Lillian said, shrugging. "The house fae are taking care of him."
Vane frowned. "I see," he said, then let out another cough. "Now, James, as I was saying: The world's gone
wrong
. During the war, Magisters took orders from
Mundane
generals. We-"
"Well, we had to coordinate," Jame said. Vane's face twisted. "And, I'll have you know, I was part of a lot of that coordination - if we hadn't worked with Hague and Pétain and the rest, then the Huns would have run roughshod over us. Their Magisters were just in bed with the damn Prussian militarists - worse! Did you know they damn near let the magic get into the
papers
. We're lucky the Germans sued for peace before the whole world found out."
Vane's face was a mask of fury.
"We have magic," he growled, then coughed. "We have magic and-" He was hit by another racking cough. He lifted his hand to his mouth, shaking more as Lillian stood, hurrying to his side. Her hand went to his shoulder.
"Vannie," she said, her eyes pitying. "You should take a seat.
Vane coughed. He tried to breathe, but it felt as if his lungs were betraying him - magic or no magic, the phosgene had gotten there. It had become barbed and fierce, digging into his lungs, ripping deep. The pain threw everything into sharp edged relief, like shadows and light were brighter than ever even as the edges of his vision grew dim. Before he had walked inside, Vane had imagined what he'd say. What he'd do. How he'd talk to his old friend.
He breathed in, and the ragged agony was so fierce that he almost started to cry. He closed his eyes.
James stood, and he looked so dapper and untouched and
fine
