The late afternoon sun slanted through the grimy window of the Scrubbs’ spare bedroom, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor. Lucy was perched cross-legged on her bed, and you were leaning against the headboard, a comfortable weight of afternoon between you.

The moment stretched, thin. He folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket, his eyes flickering to the painting that hung on the wall—a great, gilded thing depicting a ship with a dragon prow, cresting a sea that seemed to shimmer with a light all its own.