Early that same morning, the sky still grey with the previous night, Alecto had sat by the window and stared at his hand. The palm of it was smooth and supple again, no trace of a wound ever having been there. His nails were slightly longer too, an uneven set compared to his left hand.

He breathes a shaky sigh of...relief mixed with trepidation. It's working. It must be.

He spends the next few hours alone, lost deeply in thought, wandering the house by muscle memory until he arrives to the drawing room by sheer accident, completely unaware of the time. It's then, the other set of doors directly opposite of him fling open and, due to their old and loose hinges, slam against the walls with a bang. Alecto blinks, immediately looking up to see his painter, rosy-cheeked from some earlier exertion and his brows pinched together in their usual anxious shape...

Alecto's smile is warm, genuine, and pleased. "Joshua," he says, calling the man by his given name for the very first time since they've met. "I missed you at breakfast."