He was good at keeping secrets, he had proved that much, but for some reason he had told Margaret Creasy. Immediately afterwards, he had felt a relief, as though saying the words out loud had leaked away some of their power. The secret had been trapped in his head, shifting to the perimeter, pushing at the sides and carpeting all the other thoughts until they became silent. He had studied Margaret Creasy’s face as he’d spoken, searching for a condemnation to match to his own, looking for a reason to stop speaking, but there had been nothing.
