Once Arcturus was close enough to see the other wizard clearly, he couldn’t help but stare. It wasn’t deliberate. It was only that the mental image he had developed of Mr Volkov didn’t at all match this pallid, haggard-looking man dressed in what had to be second-hand, overly large robes. Had his family suffered unexpected ruin? No, that couldn’t be it. Arcturus knew the look of poverty when he saw it, but this was something else.
The moment he realised that his gaze had lingered too long, he averted his eyes, politely. The fellow had his pride; that much too was immediately obvious, and Arcturus could respect it. He gave him a slight bow in return, solemnly, with the courtesy due an elder, but then shook his head slowly as he learned the truth of the man’s condition. Over a year of illness? It seemed an unthinkable ordeal to Arcturus, who took his youth and good health very much for granted. Mr Volkov did look unwell. He might have spent the better part of that year confined to his bed, his complexion was so white.
When he next spoke, there was a faint note of indignation in his voice, directed not at his new acquaintance but towards his caregivers. ‘You cannot help the state of your health, sir, and I’d not see anyone think less of you for it. The healers might have done better by you, I’ll say that.’ Even if his condition were incurable, there was no excuse for what Arcturus imagined could be nothing else but the signs of neglect. ‘Perhaps the clear air here in Preya will do you good. I have called for a carriage, it will be here shortly, and the ride is not terribly far. We might stop at any other place you care to visit, too,’ he added. Mr Volkov truly needed the carriage, he realised then. He didn’t look steady enough to keep his balance on a broomstick, even as a passenger. ‘Have you arranged for somewhere to stay here?’ A strong sense of sympathy drove Arcturus to want to assist him further, but he was wary of being too vocal about the fact. No respectable wizard wanted to think that someone Arcturus’ age felt sorry for him. If, as he suspected, Mr Volkov had troubles far more pressing than the desire for a bar of chocolate, they were his to share or keep to himself as he saw fit. Prying wouldn’t help.