“You seem contented,” I said, peering over my shoulder. “Being away from Aisling.” “Perhaps I am.” He pondered. “What does it feel like to be contented, Bartholomew?” As if I knew. The only happiness I’d felt was with the Diviners, in the tales of what we might do when we left the tor. My stock of joy was held in the future, ever out of reach. “I think contentedness,” I said bitterly, “is just a story we tell ourselves.”
