Lysander's heart faltered.
His eyes remained fixed upon her, and upon the way she sat so quietly on the edge of his bed, staring down at her own hands as though they no longer belonged to her.
For the first time since entering the room, he wondered whether he had begun this conversation too late.
The thought came unexpectedly, and it unsettled him.
For one brief moment, he remembered the girl beneath the willow tree who had laughed over burnt bread, argued over books, and looked at him as though he were simply... Lyse.
He had spent years trying to earn that look again. Now, he wondered whether he had destroyed it himself.
The silence between them stretched.
His fingers twitched at his sides. A strange instinct urged him to stop speaking, and to sit beside her, to apologise immdiately, and to tell her she did not have to answer today.
However, that feeling of guiltt lasted only a heartbeat.
Then., reason returned.
