Caius
We didn't stay on the cliff. Some conversations need walls.
Lucien led us down through the dark to the infirmary, lit the lamps, locked the door, and the three of us ended up where wounded men always end up in that room, on the long couch against the wall, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, like casualties waiting on a diagnosis.
Which, it turned out, is exactly what we were.
"Talk," Zephyr said.
So Lucien talked. He stood in front of us with his journal like a general with a war map, and he laid it all out, months of it, in that level voice that only shook twice.
His numbers first. His own pulse, measured and logged, jumping twenty beats whenever she entered a room. The sleepless nights standing in the east hall. His wolf, the talker, gone silent and pointed at her door like a
