The Frost estate stood grey against a grey Bavarian sky, its Gothic spires sharp against the timber line.
Only the frost was missing.
It had always clung to the stone, furring the iron gates and lining the yew hedges even in midsummer.
Now the iron was bare and black.
Water dripped from the eaves with a steady, mundane rhythm, and the groom who took their reins didn't bother blowing on his fingers.
The buds would be starting to sprout on the leafless trees, if it weren't for autumn, of course.
"It's melting," Isfrid whispered.
"It's resting," Faust said, though they both knew better.
The butler met them in the hall.
His hands shook as he took Isfrid's cloak, but he bowed with rigid etiquette before leading them up the east stairs.
Rita sat beside the bed in a padded chair, a shawl across her knees.
The Herzog stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder.
He offered Faust a curt nod.
The man in the bed was half the size he'd been a month ago.
Isbert Frost lay propped against four pillows, his dragon-headed cane missing from the bedside. The skin of his face had sunk tight to the bone, but his eyes—still the hard grey-blue of the letter's seal—fixed on Faust instantly.
"You're late," Isbert rasped. "I told the boy's mother to write quickly."
"She underlined it twice," Faust said. "Four hundred kilometers in five days."
"Show-off." Isbert's gaze shifted toward the threshold. "Come here, Isfrid. Stop lurking. You look like a bailiff."
Isfrid crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside the bed, gripping the old man's hand in both of his.
His shoulders hitched once, in silence.
"There, there," Isbert said, patting his head awkwardly with his free hand. "Don't dribble on the blankets. They're expensive."
Rita let out a ragged breath. Her husband stared up at the timbered ceiling.
"How was the road?" Isbert asked, his fingers resting in his grandson's hair. "Has the Doctor corrupted you yet?"
"Several times," Isfrid said into the quilt. "I forged a seal. I impersonated a Church officer. I judged a cabbage trial."
"A cabbage trial." Isbert's chest shook until the silent laughter broke into a wet, rattling cough.
Faust was at his side in a single stride, pressing a hand flat between the old man's shoulder blades. He didn't need his tools to read the signs. The lungs were flooded. The pulse beneath his palm flickered, light and uneven.
'Days,' Faust thought. 'Not months. Days'
Isbert sank back against the linen, breathing shallowly.
"Well. That was undignified. Everyone out. I want to speak with the Doctor alone and I wish to do it before I fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, which I now do."