He’s waiting.
He smoothes the silk of his suit and the thinness of his hair, and watches, and waits.
Mr Ruislip, the blood cleared from the walls, knows they’re coming.
The four builders are gone.
The Friendlies are fled.
Magicals Anonymous turned around and, for a bunch of self-indulgent whiners, revealed itself to have claws.
They’re coming to free the spirits of the city, to find the truth about Greydawn, to take revenge against him and his darkness.
They’re coming to fight.
He smiles.
At last, something Mr Ruislip understands.