Eve thought little of the book when she first reached down into the tomb’s chest and found it, lying by itself in strangely good condition for being abandoned to a glorified rotting crate; the leather binding kept none of the slime that coated the wood or the stone walls. In cracked gilt lettering on the spine the book was titled Lanternthrust. Odd enough. Conscious of the mess she was standing on and the bloodshot moon waiting for her above, she skimmed the pages.

Inexplicably, Dec thought of 10. 10, in that wide-open, empty bedroom, lying down in that too-big bed alone. 10, asleep next to him, face half-buried in the pillow, stress softened by sleep, neck exposed. He gripped his comms a little tighter. The image made him heartsick, had him swallowing against a lump in his throat, reaching out for empty air. He didn’t understand.

He closed his eyes, forced it away. He could bear the loneliness instead.