She leafed through drawings of the heart, the femur, the hand—until she reached the last page, which depicted the bulbus oculi, the eyeballs. The fola’s insertion points were marked in thick, decisive smears of lead. She bent closer, squinting at the cramped handwriting. This collection must have been part of Lowry’s father’s research, and based on what Lowry had told her about him, nothing about it struck her as unusual. Although the paper seemed too new, too preserved, to be more than a few years old.

She was almost disappointed.

“Well?” She replaced the papers in the drawer and turned back to Hal. “Shall we?”

“I need a few more minutes.”

“Fine.”

Wren sank onto the edge of a pink settee and stared past Hal, a solid black shape against the charcoal sky. Outside the window, snow continued to fall. The muffling silence of the estate would drive her mad soon.

Sometimes, she wondered if Hal would be easier to deal with were he as violent and tempestuous as the Vesrian stereotypes promised, or as cold as the war stories—and her own memory—described. In the Battle of the River Muri, she had seen a monster wearing his face. Remorseless. Empty. Even though he had spared her life, she could chalk it up to some kind of strange serendipity.

But the man sitting across from her was only pensive, sometimes even dryly amusing if she was being generous. Which one was the facade? What would she find if she pushed him hard enough?

“So, Cavendish. Are you always so taciturn, or is it only with me?”

“I don’t believe in talking for its own sake,” he said. “I grew up around people who enjoyed the sound of their own voice too much. It seems I can’t escape them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for a fight. “I don’t mean you.”

If not her, then…? Oh. Oh. Lowry.

Wren choked back a laugh. “Then let’s discuss something of import. Danubian history, perhaps? Or maybe the ever-engaging philosophical writings of Walsh?”

Wren watched emotion pass over his face like clouds over the moon, a slow bleed from defensive to confused to resigned. Hal sighed. “Have you read them? They’re quite interesting.”

“Alas, I haven’t had the pleasure.” Wren snapped her fingers. “But I can do one better. Let’s discuss religion.”

“You want to talk about religion,” he repeated.

She’d meant it as a joke, but now that it hummed in the air between them … “Why not? If you’re really interested in Danu’s culture, I can tell you more than books can. Consider it a thought exercise. When have a Danubian and a Vesrian ever had the opportunity to discuss these things civilly?”

“I’m afraid you’ll find me an inept conversation partner on the topic. You’re clergy.”

“Military,” she corrected.