He had preserved just one last taste of Chartreuse. There had been a last swallow, which left behind a last sip, and then, after that, he had put his lips to the threaded nipple when anxious, if only to inhale what had once been there. The girl watched him touch his tongue to the flask. Her eyes had lit up upon seeing the silver in the moonlight.

She still hadn’t spoken. Hugo thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. It was a different sort of beauty from the princesses’. She reminded him of other girls he’d known, only fresher and better.

She was pointing at him.

“What’s that?” he asked. “Oh. My crossbow? You want to see my crossbow?” She did not nod, but she was reaching out for it. “It’s quite valuable,” he said. “You’ll have to be careful.” A quiet crackle traveled up his spine as he slipped the tiller from its case, and then lifted the crossbow by its leather cord off of his neck, like slipping off a bridle. “Have you fired a crossbow before? These are called fletches. They’re like arrows.” He held the crossbow himself. “You draw the string back like this, and this is the nut that holds it.”

She looked at the weapon, then at him, enchanted. She pointed at the bow again. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you touch it. It’s too dangerous.”

Her gaze returned to his eyes. If he expected her to well up with tears, he was disappointed.

She was extending, between a bare forefinger and bare thumb, a small silver badge the size of a quarter. On it was stamped a tiny silver fish. There were raised letters on the back, G-S-A, but Hugo could not read them in the moonlight.

“Your badge for my crossbow?” He laughed. “I think not.” But he laughed again, which made her smile. He realized how tense his shoulders had been for months. “Oh,” he said, “I’m with you, miss.” He performed pantomime: pretended to hand her the crossbow and take the badge, and then, a moment later, pretended to exchange them again. Not a trade. A loan.

She nodded, once.

Hugo looked down the hill, toward the town whose name he either knew or didn’t. The doors of some houses had opened, and yellow lights from within made silhouettes, the shapes of people. Some were bent into old age. Most were upright, stout, and walking with arms extended from their sides. One or two were black cutouts in the shapes of children. He gave them a gentle wave. And then, as if sharing one mind, they began their approach together. He waved again. No one waved back.