Rory caught himself on the wall. I felt his gaze on my face, in the air, in the broken pieces of stone around us. He didn’t say it, but I knew. He’d do anything I asked of him. So I looked at him in his fathomless eyes. Watched as they lost their light. Told him, in a voice cold as stone, “Go.” “Where are we going?” the gargoyle asked again. He looked back at me. “We can’t go without Bartholomew.” I turned away, tears falling down my face. “Wait—wait.” The gargoyle began to sob, more pieces of stone falling from his body. “I’m her squire. We cannot be apart.”
