Edgar's grip tightened on his shovel as they passed through the hallways, an unfortunate amount of resolve in his eyes. His only answer to Tolten's demand had been a nod of understanding; he knew all too well what he would have to do if one or either of his wards that night changed. As much as he wanted to believe he was being overly cautious, that the weeks of imprisonment in the institute had poisoned him with paranoia, the facts were harder to ignore with every passing day: Locke, Tolten, and others were visibly ill, growing worse as the days passed.

More than that, he knew that luck favored the prepared. And if there was anything he had experience in, it was preparing for the worst. The people of Figaro had been through plenty of hardship; he was no stranger to it, though it took on a new life in Landel's. The stakes seemed higher, his allies fewer and fewer. The thought that one of them might transform— and worse, what steps he might have to take to keep them from hurting others— left him rattled to the core. He pushed it down, not letting it show. It was his other talent: wearing a mask, playing a role as needed.

And right now, he needed to be the support. He was possibly all they had.

Edgar approached Locke's door first, knocking only once before opening the door. No need for pleasantries when time was possibly running out. "Locke?"