I stare at Dorian for what seems an eternity. Our history—two hundred and sixty-seven years of it—passes unspoken between us.
My mouth is hanging open. I quickly close it and clear my throat.
“Um, hey.”
He quirks an eyebrow, unsmiling. “Hello, Silas.”
I look at his neighbor, who has in his earbuds and isn’t paying attention to us.
“It’s…been a while.”
“It has. You seem…well.”
His accent is gone. I wonder where he’s been living, how he ended up here, how…wait.
I try not to let my suspicion show. “It’s quite the coincidence, us on the same flight, isn’t it?”
“Not to me. I live in England, too.”
“Ah. I’m just visiting on my way back to—” I hesitate for only a second. “Vienna. That’s where I’m living now.”
He c***s his head to the side. “London not working out for you?”
So he knows
