This back-and-forth between us—God, I’ve missed it. After the orange grove and then the ball, I never thought I would feel normal with her again. And I don’t, not fully. But we are at least performing a respectable facsimile of normalcy. It is comforting, and in our circumstances, I think we both need the comfort of the familiar.

The candles and flint were buried far enough in my saddlebags that they managed to stay mostly dry. I strike them into action, filling the cave with a soft, amber glow. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to see by. And the light might help keep the horses calm.

For the moment, they are happy to be out of the rain. They are snuggled together on the far side of the cave, as far away from the entrance and the storm raging outside as they can get. In the dim light, Tornado’s black coat blends with the shadows. Rocinante is so white he almost radiates his own light. A particularly nasty clap of thunder makes Rocinante neigh loudly in objection. Tornado moves to press himself tighter against Rocinante’s side. Rocinante calms at the touch, huffing out what sounds like the equine equivalent of a sigh.

“That’s a good boy, Tornado. Keep that hothead calm.”

“That hothead saved your skin.” With my back to Ana, I don’t see her undress, but I can hear it. Wet clothing peeling off skin and dropping to the floor. “You should be thanking him.”

“Thank you, Rocinante.” From the corner of my eye, I see her cut the horse a truly sloppy curtsy.

I snort as I begin to peel off my sodden clothes. “You know, I—”

My sentence fizzles out because I choose that moment to turn around, and I’m struck dumb by the sight that greets me.

Ana, stripped down to nothing but her small clothes.

She catches me staring and frowns. “What?” Her hands tighten on the wet shirt she’s still holding. It begins to come up, to cover up her exposed torso.

By the light of the candles, I can barely see her scars, but they’re there. Flickering shadows catch the ridges of uneven skin.

Her scars. It’s been so long since I last saw them that I nearly forgot they were there.

Hastily, she begins to pull on her wet shirt.

“No, Ana, you don’t have to…”

But it’s not my place to tell her what she should and should not do. It’s her body. Her history. Her past written across her skin in a network of scars, the stories of which I have not been trusted with. Not yet. Not even after all these years.

I reach for her, but it’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

Ana recoils from my touch, holding her sodden shirt between us like a shield. “Don’t.”