"Fix it?" Kenspeckle repeated, frowning and still with a small bottle in one hand as he moved toward the jar. His hand was already on it before he paused, glancing toward Solomon and then back down again, and there was a dawning light of horrified suspicion in his face as he pulled up the same corner as Erskine--not enough for anyone else to see.

For several moments he stood staring, paling more slowly than Erskine, but with a rising fury in his eyes proportional to his horror. Quietly he laid the corner down. "He's right. You don't want to know, Valkyrie. But you're going to know anyway, because I need to see under Wreath's bandage."

Gabe had crossed quietly to Skulduggery and laid a hand on his arm, all without looking the skeleton in the eye--not in the manner of avoiding making contact, but because he didn't feel the need to. Kenspeckle refused to look in their direction. There was something happening between the pair of them of whose details Kenspeckle wasn't aware, and wasn't sure he wanted to be aware. So he didn't look. He took a deep breath and said simply, "Wreath's eyes are in this jar."

There was a heavy pause broken only a moment later.

"Well, if he can't fix it, at least I can finally say Skulduggery and I have matching features," Solomon quipped at Erskine, and actually sounded amused. Raphael laughed, and it wasn't forced; he laughed because he could see Solomon's soul, see the pure joy and relief in it. Gabe turned and smiled.

"He's amazing, isn't he?"

"It's incredible." Rafe shook his head. "If I didn't know for a fact I'd seen King Solomon only a century ago playing Mah-Jong with Ghandi, I'd wonder if he hadn't been reincarnated."

"Ah," Solomon said, and even without eyes there was something stunned in the way he turned his head. "I think I'm starting to feel a little overwhelmed now."

"Only a little?" Gabe teased.

"Just a little, yes."

"I can fix it," Kenspeckle said to Valkyrie, to Erskine, halfway to Skulduggery. "I can--" He hesitated. "Well, I need to examine him properly first. I can replace the eyes, of course, but the manner in which the optical nerve was cut will determine whether I can restore his sight."

There was a faint emphasis on the word 'I' as he turned to look at Raphael. The Archangel was still looking steadily down into Solomon's face, still holding his hand. Solomon looked back, what could be seen of his face flickering with expressions best-seen in his soul. Expressions even Solomon couldn't quite determine himself, but which Raphael could see. Hope. Aversion. Uncertainty.

"You can't, Kenspeckle," Raphael said quietly without shifting his gaze. "I could, but not yet. Solomon, your magic has already begun to take over for your physical sight. It isn't perfect; if you still had your eyes, you would be able to See more. Which you will, after they're returned to you. Separating your magic from your sight will take a finesse and energy I simply don't have right now. Once it returns to me, with my brother's help, I would be able separate soul, magic and sight, and cleanse you of the residual necromancy which scars you. The question is whether you will want me to."

For a long moment there was silence. Then, as if he was hardly thinking it, as if soul and intent pushed past the boundaries of the mind's rationality, Solomon breathed, "No."

Raphael smiled, an infinitely gentle and proud smile, and brushed back Solomon's hair with a tenderness only an angel could have for a ward. "I thought you might say that."