“Where is she going?”

“No idea.”

“Maybe you don’t need to know,” he said. “Maybe all she’s doing is giving the atlas to someone else because she’s grown up. She doesn’t need it any more.”

“But that’s so sad,” Emily blurted out. “Just because you’re not a child doesn’t mean all the magic should be taken away.”

“At last she speaks!” he said with a grin. “I was beginning to think you never would.”

It hit her, square between the eyes, as she realized that, for the first time in weeks, she had spoken a complete sentence, sentences, without taking a breath. Without stopping to think about how her tongue would betray her, stumble over the words, or worse, spit all over the table.

“So is it just me, or do you really not speak to anyone at all?”

“I…” Emily hesitated, because she hadn’t really thought about why, not for years.

“You never used to care what people think.”

Emily took a sip of her drink, then looked away.

Tyler regarded her for a moment more, then pulled the sketchbook close to look at the picture again; at how the atlas seemed to be leaping, rather than falling, from Ophelia’s rucksack. He noticed a flock of sheep blocking the road ahead, as if trying to get her to stop, to turn around and see what was hidden within the picture.

He stared at the face of a wizened shepherd, one hand curled around an ancient hook, the other cradling a fuzzy yellow duckling. Tyler recognized the shepherd, even if Emily appeared not to. It was her father. She was hiding things within her drawings, things even she couldn’t see.

“You seem to notice everything.” He rested his hand on the depiction of someone who taught him how to throw a decent punch, never to rat on his true friends, and always, always, stand up for those you love. “You were always so good at understanding people and their emotions better than they did themselves.”

“I draw what I see.”

“No,” he said with a swift shake of his head. “It’s more than that. There’s a story behind the picture. More than any of the words your grandmother wrote. I see it now.” He looked at her, really looked at her, taking in the pronounced cupid’s bow, wide hazel eyes, and skin like the finest porcelain. “You’re more talented than you think.”

Emily swatted away the compliment, ignoring his kind words because she was so unaccustomed to such attention and had no idea what to do with it.

“What about you?” She had seen the shades of blue under his eyes. The subtle lines were there, underneath two-day stubble, along with the absence of something that used to be, replaced by a different kind of smile.

“What about me?”

She nodded at the guitar perched on the chair beside him.

“I love music,” he said. “It’s what makes me feel alive in a way that nothing else ever could. But, as you know, I come from a family where everything was decided for me. Which school I went to, which university, which career. No doubt my father even had a list of prospective wives written down somewhere.”