I get dressed in the bathroom. Snow and I have never dressed in front of each other; it’s an extension of our mutual paranoia. And thank snakes for that—my life is painful enough. When I’m dressed and ready and back in our room, Snow is still standing near his bed, shirt on but not buttoned, tie hanging round his neck. His hair actually looks worse than it did when he woke up, like he’s been tearing his hands through the curls. He freezes and looks up at me. “What’s wrong, Snow? Cat got your tongue?”
