xiii.

Tom has gone for one of his night romps on the surface. I am baking shortbread over coals. I haven’t heard Neftali or Hèléne since their spat. Sam stands next to me holding the tea cannisters, measuring the tea, I think. Or perhaps he is constructing a fort with them. He must think I am K. I am wearing K’s robe. Tonight it must be golden.

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