If he doesn’t look back this time, I’ve lost him. And the possibility brought on an echo of the earlier despair. A candle flame extinguished by a scream. She lifted her eyes and looked across the cavern. And . . . . . . living fire. That was what his eyes were like, greeting hers: a fuse that seared the air between them. He was looking at her. And as far away as he was, and with so much between them—chimaera, seraphim, all the living, all the dead—it felt like touch, that look. Like the rays of the sun. They looked at each other. They looked, and anyone might notice. Anyone might see.
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