The duchess’ suite ran warm. Each curl loosened from its pin fell only to stick to the back of Morax’s neck, heavy with the oils combed into it only hours before. It was the heavy velvet draped over the walls, she thought, that trapped all heat, made the room crowd in around her as if it was small and intimate and not the personal bedroom of one of the Court. There were no hidden slits for attendants to look in through the walls, but why would they, when the good Duchess allowed them to participate in Morax’s humilation firsthand?

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.