It wasn’t like Thisbe hadn’t thought about it—she’d spent plenty of time musing back in Artimé before the Revinir came. She’d talked with Florence about it too. And in addition to all the strongest spell components, Florence had given her some of the most basic magical components that many Artiméans had trained with long ago, but that they no longer carried because they weren’t terribly useful in combat situations. Florence had thought Thisbe might be in a unique situation, though, and being stuck down here in the catacombs again made Thisbe feel certain Florence had been right. Absently Thisbe checked her pockets, identifying the items by touch. They would come in handy when escape time came. “We need a meeting spot,” Thisbe said. “And a way to communicate. Do you still have my . . . my gift? The one . . .” She felt her face grow hot.

“Of course I do,” said Rohan. “Shall I practice my seek spell to make sure I can do it?”

“Yes. I’ll send one to you first, so you can watch my technique.” She reached into her back pocket where she kept the tiny birch-bark diorama that Rohan had constructed for her and unfolded it. “First, think about the person who gave it to you.” Holding it in her hands, she closed her eyes and concentrated on Rohan, picturing the moment he’d given it to her. It made her feel wistful even though he was right next to her. “Seek,” she whispered.

A ball of light shot out and stopped abruptly inches away in front of Rohan. It exploded into a picture of the diorama.

“Okay, I think I can do that,” said Rohan confidently. He reached for the poem that Thisbe had written for him. “I’ve been wanting to try this out for so long.”

“Well, why didn’t you?” said Thisbe.

“I—” Now it was Rohan’s turn to feel heat rushing to his face. He stumbled over his words. “I didn’t want to intrude into your life.”

Thisbe caught his gaze. A pang of longing went through her chest, and she grasped his sleeve. “Please don’t ever feel that way,” she said quietly.

“I also didn’t want you to think I needed you.” Rohan frowned after he said it. The words hadn’t come out sounding right at all.

“Oh.”

“I mean, I do, though,” said Rohan.

“Do what?”

“Need you.”

Thisbe looked up. Words caught in her throat, so she said nothing at all.

Rohan swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He turned back to the gift in his hands. After opening the paper, Rohan read the poem that Thisbe had written for him. He mouthed the words but didn’t say them out loud, as if saying them would break the spell of their beauty or release them to the world for others to steal. He wanted these words for himself and no one else.