Wren’s POV
The stone room takes about forty minutes to make ready, and I spend most of it sitting on the bench with my hands between my knees, listening to the two of them argue in low voices about things I don’t understand.
Salt. Something about salt, and whether the rushes come out, and how much light.
“You’re allowed to be frightened,” Ronan says.
“I’m aware.”
“You’ve gone very quiet.”
“I’m being efficient.” I look up at him. “If I start talking, I’ll start asking questions, and if I start asking questions, Maren will answer them honestly, and I’d rather go in with the amount of information I’ve currently got.”
He crouches down in front of me, which puts him lower than me, and I know by now that he does it on purpose.
“Tell me what you need,” he says.
“Nothing. You’ll be here.”
