Caspian felt both.
His hand found mine under the coat.
He waited until I laced our fingers.
Then he held on.
“At dawn,” he said, “they will try to move us separately.”
“Quill said you stay with me.”
“Quill says what serves the next room.”
“When the door opens, I will stand first.”
“No.”
He turned his head.
I lifted mine from his shoulder.
“We have covered this. I’m tired of being placed behind men for my own good.”
“I know.”
“Then give me an alternative.”
He looked at the far door. Then at the locked one. Then at the word my mother had cut where the table leg met the underside of the wood.
When he looked back at me, he seemed younger again. Less armored.
“Stand with me,” he said.
“There you go.”
The first gray of morning had begun to find the crack under the door when footsteps returned to the corridor.
Two sets.
Then four.
Then too many to bother counting.
Caspian stood.
So did I.
His coat slid from my shoulders. He picked it up and put it on without fastening it.
I touched the brooch over my heart.
Then the Mark on my wrist.
Then, because I could not help myself, the underside of the table.
Survive.
The lock turned.
