Dean's gaze drifted toward the windows beyond the sitting area, where the palace gardens had already disappeared into the blue-grey darkness of early evening and the glass reflected the warmer interior instead: the low lamps beside the sofa, the abandoned chocolate mug, Arion holding their son as though Theodore had always belonged in the space against his chest.
"If someone buried it," Dean said after a moment, "then I hope they left enough somewhere for us to find, because I would rather not rely entirely on memories passed between people who spent decades turning into forest monsters."
"That is more or less what Hendrik said."
"I assume he used fewer forest monsters."
"Considerably fewer."
