Her building looked like it always did these days. All the windows were dark with blinds and curtains, the musty smell close around her when she pushed through the door. She dug out her keys as they ran up the stairs, not counting the steps or the rungs or calculating the change of pitch of the railing. Up to the third floor, down the hallway to her door.

The lights were off in there, of course, as she’d left them yesterday morning. But the light from the corridor was enough to show her the rectangle of white on the floor, where someone must have slid it under her door. She picked it up while Drake switched on the lights, slit it open while he closed the door, pulled out the single sheet of paper while he returned to her side.

Numbers, in a familiar pattern. The simple code Drake had been using, the one that used the poetry book as a key. She moved to the table, where she always kept Les Heures Claires set out, waiting for the next day’s sweet nothings.

She hated that he’d taken this. Stolen their unspoken secret and used it against them. The first time they acknowledged the notes aloud shouldn’t be like this, when it was Dieter Regnitz who had used their book to write her a message instead of Drake. It was like an inkblot on a page of newsprint. A mar on what had been perfect.

Suddenly she recalled the notes that were out of order, that night she’d gone on a whim to Drake’s flat and ended up fleeing again. The night she’d apparently collided directly with Regnitz and hadn’t even realized it. He’d been following her, not just watching Drake. He’d been in here. In her haven, in the place that had always been safe. He’d touched her belongings, and she hadn’t even known it. She’d been too focused on those stupid newspapers. Too distracted by the muddle of her own mind.

No, not her mind. Her heart.

Perhaps her disquiet showed on her face, or in her stillness, or in the way she held the letter. Because Drake rested a hand on her back and pressed his lips to the side of her head. “You know, I have two matching volumes of Don Quixote in Bilbao. I’ll send one to you.”

She leaned into him for a moment, gave him a smile. And then moved to her chair at the table. They hadn’t the time to waste on regrets and horror now. “I suppose we ought to see what he has to say.”

“I’ll help.” He sat at the chair next to her and slid the book of poetry toward him. “You read the numbers off, I’ll find them.”