His eyes fall to my shaking hands, and he covers them with his own, letting warmth bleed into my suddenly cold skin. “Mare?” “He shot me,” I whisper. “The Sentinel shot me. It’s my blood they found.” And then his hands are just as cold as mine. For all his clever ideas, Maven has nothing to say to this. He just stares, his breath coming in tiny, scared puffs. I know the look on his face; I wear it every time I’m forced to say good-bye to someone. “It’s too bad we didn’t stay longer,” I murmur, looking out at the river. “I would have liked to die close to home.” Another breeze sends a curtain
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