Here, in the palace’s coolly foreboding passages of marble and stone, she witnessed his features retreat to a place far in the distance. A place no one was permitted to follow. The only inkling she had—the only hint she was still part of his reality—was her hand wound in his. And she did not care for it at all. It should not matter. He should not matter. Again, she slackened her grasp. Once more, he simply reinforced his.
