Her steps slowed as she approached the Kettle Black. Gods, she did not want to be the one to tell Jer, but there was no one else. Even her mother-in-law did not know. She had not seen any further infidelities on Cai's part, but now he knew she worked the Stag, he would not come back. Vicka breathed in. She steadied herself for the painful truth-breaking; it had to be done. She loved her Uncle Jer dearly. Vicka knew as a healer sometimes she had to cause pain to Fix the hurt.

She didn't see how she could Fix anything for her poor uncle.

Vicka knocked on the door, then let herself in, as she always did. "Jer? Uncle Jer, it's me, Vi."

Jer had been upstairs whittling for the past hour. No one was coming in, and Cai was out. Again. Jer's hand slipped, cutting off a bit of what he'd been working on. Too much-- the bear had one nose too few, now. Jer cursed, setting it down with a sigh and a frown. He let his chin fall to rest on the heel of his hand, contemplating the room before him in the soft blue lamplight.

20 years, had it been now? Sure seemed as it went by awful fast, to Jer. Not an entirely easy 20 years, to be sure, plenty of problems to go around. Still, Jer and Cai, the both of them, they'd made a life here. Hadn't they? Jer had always thought they'd been if not entirely content, then at least happy enough. Jer was, leastaways. It was seeming more and more likely to him that he was the only one.

Jer scrubbed at his face with his hand. Weren't nothing for it, he'd have to start the bear over again. Weren't like he had much else he needed to get done, anyways. He was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of Vicka's voice coming from downstairs. There was a slight scramble as Jer made himself presentable-- put on a shirt, even buttoned it most of the way --and then he went downstairs.

"Vi, what brings ye 'round here? That pot need patchin' again?"

"I wish," Vicka said. Her throat suddenly tightened, she could not quite smile the way she normally did. Vicka, the saucy witch, with a wink and a smile . . . that was how people knew her 'round here.

Jer looked the same as he had for all her life. She could not remember a time when Uncle Jer and Cai were not married, running their business out of a quiet home. She had been an infant when they married, friends of her da, furnishers of her husband's kitchen when she herself married.

"Gods," Vicka said. "Uncle Jer, is Uncle Cai home? This is something I gotta tell you in peace and private. Can we sit down?"

Weren't like Vicka, weren't like her at all, to seem so serious. He'd known the witch all her life and there weren't too many times as Jer could remember seeing her serious as she looked today. She seemed-- not like a Vicka at all. Not at all.

"He ent about, nah..." He didn't like where this was going, asking about Cai, wondering if he was about. Had he done something? Jer didn't want to think what all he could have done that would be so serious as to have Vicka over here like this. He gestured to one of the workbenches for them to sit down at.

"What's all this about then, Vi? He ent... This ent Seventen trouble, is it?"

Vicka breathed in deep, unsure of how to start.

"No," she said. "No, it ent Uncle Brigk. It's Uncle Cai. Jer, he was at the Stag the other night. I don't think he knew I worked ther or he'd never have come. There was a sailor . . . Jer, I don't know how to say it kindly."

She braced herself. "Caiaphas was sweet on him. I told him--I warned him, not to but he didn't pay heed. Jer, I dunno where they dusted when they did or what they got up to, but I have an inkling. You'll have to ask Cai yourself what happened after that."

Somewhere in the recesses Jer's mind, he'd always wondered. He knew as life in Vienda didn't suit Cai none, being used to wandering about as he was. It weren't like Jer was particularly suited for it, neither. Too many people about, always meddling in a man's private business. Jer wasn't one for that sort of thing, just wanted to be left alone to his whittling and his smithing and whatever else he wanted to get himself into. He never thought as they'd be here this long, really.

Twenty years, nah, that weren't what he'd thought would happen. Then his ma, and the shop, and now he was old, and tired. Too tired to pick up wandering the world like some sort of scrap of thistledown, blown about by any passing crosswind. It had seem alright to him though, some little private scrap of happiness Jer'd held on to. Shop, few friends, Cai, his Ma mostly stayed away, and Jer at least was pretty happy where he was.

Still, still, there'd always been that little fear he by and large ignored, like he by and large ignored anything troubling. Little nagging voice, sometimes sounded as like his Ma, or Elijah, or both, telling him things. Weren't good enough, this house, it said. Weren't good enough, this life, it said. Weren't good enough, Jeremiah-- boring and quiet, ent even young anymore besides. Too much trouble for too little payoff, Jeremiah. Ent nobody wants to put up with that.

Jer weren't surprised, then. Not surprised, he thought, but the sudden feeling in his gut told him otherwise. Not Uncle Brigk, nah, and Jer was glad for that. Only so much trouble Cai could get into, making off with sailors and who knows what else. Not like Seventen trouble, wouldn't see him dead or worse. So Jer was glad.

His face might have gone a little stiller than usual, a good deal bit more like some sort of rock or wood carving. He squeezed his eyes together, for a few brief moments, pressed the heels of his hands to them. With Vicka sitting there, Jer wouldn't do nothing else. Couldn't do nothing else, even if he wanted to. Jer hadn't ever managed to quite pick up the skill in letting other people see him in a state of distress. Elijah always said a man ent one for such displays, a man is as unreadable as the face of the moons. And Jer didn't hold with a lot of what Elijah always said, but that'd really stuck with him. He weren't ever sure how to undo that, neither.

"Vicka," he said and his voice weren't as shaky as he feared, "I think ye best leave, Vi. I..." Jer sighed, took his hands away from his face. Heavy yellow gaze leveled at her.

"What all bar did ye say ye worked at, again?"

"I work at the Clockwork Stag," Vicka said. It felt heavy on her tongue; usually she passed out the name to friends, encouraging them to come down and entertain her, make her laugh, amuse her with their drunken happiness.

Vicka wrung her hands together for a moment, before reaching out and touching Jer's shoulder, gentle as a feather. "He ent dead or hurt, you can be grateful . . . but he ought not carry on so, Jer."

She pulled back, retreating out the door, her errand complete. Vicka paused just as her hand lighted on the handle. "The Stag is just outside the district proper. I'll have a pint for you at the ready, should you want it. Just ask for me, alright?"