Twentysixteen. Nearly two hundred years stand between Kell and the Grey London he knew, the Grey London he barely knew, when he considers how well he'd known the others. Kell sucks in a breath and doesn't let himself think of home, not yet, if it is closed to him, if Rhy is. He folds a hand briefly over the scar on his chest and tries to listen for him, shoving ruthlessly down on a stab of panic when nothing replies.

Instead, Kell watches this Sirius Black's display, smiling despite himself for the showmanship. With his handsome face and charm, Sirius' form echoes Rhy back to him, and Kell finds himself nodding. "A pint of ale?" he asks, meaning to offer to buy the next, but he realizes his few coins will carry no weight here.