“Are you?” He’s probably a full ten inches taller, but he dips his head to meet her eyes. The effect is the opposite of equalizing. She feels, if anything, shorter, more obviously tiny in comparison. “I was watching you today,” he says.

“I—” Maeve drops her gaze, smiling a little despite herself. Not sure what to say. “I know, I saw that.”

“No. Not just now. Out in the snow, I mean. Even like that, when you’re in three layers of clothes, I can see the dancer in you. It’s mesmerizing.” He sets the lantern down, and the light flares up from their feet. “There’s no time you’re not aware of your body, is there? All your moving parts. That piece you were working on downstairs—”

“I was just fooling around. Trying to stay warm.”

“No—”

“Yeah—”

He cuts her off. “No, I don’t think so. It looked like something. It looked like a fight. Like you were tethered, you know? God, I’d love to use it somehow.”

“Use it?” She can almost feel the heat of his body. That’s how close they’re standing. She has to tilt her chin up to look at him, but it somehow makes her nervous, embarrassed, something. She’s not sure.

“In the gallery.” He keeps on, gesturing with his free hand, the long fingers hovering, gripping some object in his mind. “Roped to the ground, but fighting like a goddamn wild thing. You could work that in: a big rope, big braid of sailing cord. And there’s you, fighting against it. Like some fierce little animal. Staring down the barrel of a gun.”

He’s standing there with an instructive look, as though he’s really considering art and not just forcing her to imagine being tied up.

“That’s what you should call it,” he says. “Trigger Point.” He relaxes, flicks the hat with a finger. “I’m glad we saved your pretty face.”

She wants to look away but doesn’t. She can feel her jaw tighten, her tongue against the back of her teeth.

“I’m tired,” she says again. Her eyes steady on his. “I’m tired, Sim. I need a break tonight. From this.”

They’re standing there like that when the stairwell door opens again. Maeve turns her head, relieved. Anna, coming back along the hall. She’s got her backpack on one shoulder, the mug of booze still in one hand. In the other, she brandishes the key to the next room.

“Success!”

Sim steps back and watches her open the room next door. To Maeve: “Too nervous to sleep alone?”

Anna swings out from the door, her backpack swaying. “And what do you think has made her so nervous, hey? I mean, can you think of anything? No? How about anyone?”

Maeve hands the hat back to Sim.