Declan
FARAH He comes within ten minutes. I am sitting on the edge of my bed when he arrives, still in the clothes I wore to watch him from the window, and he stops in the doorway and looks at me with the blood still on his shirt and his face and the specific quality of attention he gives things he is taking seriously. “Tell me,” he says. So I do. I tell him about Declan’s camp — not the torture, not the witch, the parts I have already given him. The other parts. The things I heard in the hours before he came for me, when the rogues were moving around the tent thinking I was unconscious and talking the way people talk when they believe no one is listening. I tell him about the supply routes they mentioned, specific enough to be useful. I tell him about the name that came up twice in a conver
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