He earns a glance from that -- or his feet do, her eyes still lowered. It's not the same -- and he must know that.

But she has no desire to talk about it, either. The home she's craved for thousands of years died thousands of years ago. Better that she forgets it if she can; she'll never get it back.

The ghosts of shapes, faces still play behind her eyelids.

"I met Steven not very long ago," she finishes quietly, and looks away.

"Why . . . did you think of this place?"