“Do you remember those nights on the ice?” I ask. “When we almost froze to death under a pitch-black sky like this one? Did you love me then, or hate me?” Gáspár’s throat bobs in the dark. “I hated you then,” he says. “For being the only warm, bright thing for miles.” “What about on the Little Plain?” I ask. “When you killed Kajetán to save me?” “I must have hated you then too,” he says. “For making me trade my soul for your life.”
