And so Derrica is on the very last ferry out to Kirkwall.

Washed clean of flour, hair still slightly damp, she is more or less presentable when she arrives on his doorstep. Two comically large tankards have made the trip up the narrow stairs with her, one of which she presents to him with a small laugh.

"A gift, from your landlord."

A minor divergence from the squabble on the crystals, the topic of magic, rifters and whatever might happen after the war: alcohol, specially brewed and of dubious quality.