"They were mine for mere weeks, and I found them unbearable," she informs him, resisting the impulse to reach out and touch him, if only to dull the pain an instant. He might fool anyone else here, but not her, not after the display she'd just witnessed.

A strange hour, he'd said, and she has to disagree, hardly strange, a good hour, quiet, ideal for reflection. Her body angles towards his and away from the sun that splashes against their faces. The infirmary, she thinks, will be closed. Her gaze falls back to him and lands squarely on his jaw, his neck, following down the markings like the branches of a grotesque tree. It makes her feel powerless, knowing that the one thing she can do for him, he won't let her do--and she knows better than to press. So she settles for the next best thing.

"Would you like to walk with me, until the infirmary opens?"