"I know." Yseult frees her fingers from behind his head and lowers her arm back beneath the blanket instead to rest against him, her hand returned to his chest. She's quiet, taking in the rise and fall of his ribs, the warmth of his skin, and letting her eyes slip closed. She focuses on that, and on the image she's conjured in both their minds, and on the crackle of the fire and the distant hush of the waves, all so far from a clammy cell smelling of cold mud and burnt skin and fresh blood, silent except for Flint's breathing and her own. At least she's planted the idea and Darras hasn't ripped it up. That's some comfort.

She hooks a heel around his shin and pulls herself an impossible inch closer. "I'd miss you too," she says, adding more lightly, "If spirits can miss things. If I don't get pulled into some other dream world to be their version of a rifter."