For a time we held one another, there in the lonely dark. As my melancholy began to lift, I loosened my grasp but did not sit up, my forehead in his neck, my breath mingling with his. I began to grow overly conscious of those breaths—a little too fast, perhaps. My blood ran faster too, his proximity taking on a new level of meaning.
If he felt it, he did not comment. We simply remained as we were, each to their own thoughts, until he spoke again.
“Do you have any idea how we might escape?”
I sat up, loath though I was to leave his embrace. I knew, accepted, that such intimacy would not leave this cell. “No. But if you happen to have a spoon, I will start digging.”
“There you are,” he said, fondness in his voice. “The intrepid Ottilie returns.”
I found myself beaming absurdly into the darkness andpulled myself together. “Well. Did you see anything useful on the way in?”
“Actually, yes,” he said, pushing himself a little more upright. “We are in the east dungeons, the pre-imperial section. When there was light, I could see the arches. Can you see them now?”
I looked at the front of the cell, where my Eventide sight cast our prison in sepia tones. “The doorway?”
“Yes. Overtop of it, there was an older, larger entry.” He patted the back wall. “This was added, too. The original stone is red granite, imported from the north. You can see the newer stone is grey Harren.”
“That helps us?”
“It may,” he hedged. “I studied the Revolution a great deal, as part of my military training. There were sections of the dungeons—catacombs—blocked off during the same rebuild. That includes the old siege reservoir. It was fed by the river and connected to the canals of Old Harrow. If we can get in, perhaps we can swim out.”
“That is an excellent plan,” I decided. “You know the layout?”
“I do.”
“Your training was extensive,” I observed, grudgingly impressed.
“That I learned on my own,” he corrected. “I have an interest in architecture.”
“I did not know that.”
He shrugged. “I have many interests.”
“What else?” I asked, lured off topic by the pleasure of simply talking to him.
He glanced at me—or rather in my direction, since he still could not see. For a moment I thought he would not respond, then he said, “Architecture. Music—orchestral, in particular. The Kessan masters are my preference, though the Basinine are a close second. But anything after Ciollo is popular nonsense.”
“Naturally,” I said, trying not to smile. “And your poetry, of course.”
“Yes. Poetry of any form save pre-imperial Arrentian—how fitting.”
“Why?”
“It is boorish and crude and contains far too many references to grovelling.”
“To deities?” I asked, sifting through my own knowledge of pre-imperial Harren culture.
“Mm. Yes. And worshipping rulers. And beautiful women… The latter, I will admit, has some merit.”
I felt my cheeks warm again. Whether or not I fell into his classification of beautiful women was a question that remained unasked and unanswered, however.
A door clanged off in the dark.
Our eyes locked.
“We must take them by surprise,” I whispered. “We do not act until the right moment, when they are inside the cell with us. Then we overpower them.”
Though we were both aware of the futility of that hope, he did not question it.
