Something has been tugging at the back of Palamedes’ mind since the girl first spoke to him, and he’d been wary of exploring it, for fear of landing himself with a migraine—or worse. But now, watching her in silence, he lets himself follow the thread of his thoughts. It’s her voice, he realizes, and something about her stance, her height. He doesn’t remember her, exactly, but he remembers watching the memory of her from a distance.

I owe you one, she’d said, swathed in black with a smaller figure slung over her shoulder.

He did that for free, Camilla had answered without missing a beat.

Pal doesn’t say any of that, though. After the last month of mayhem, he has learned to be cautious. If she isn't going to be entirely forthcoming with him, then he will return the favor. Instead, he stares at her with his intense grey eyes for a long moment, and then he huffs a laugh. “I suppose I do spend a lot of time crouched ominously in graveyards,” he concedes. “But as it happens, I’ve been checking to see if anything has changed. As remarkable as it sounds, much of our environment has transformed overnight, you see. This used to be a desert.”