There’s a fierce whipcord wriggle where Ribbon is caught under the clutch of her fingers, thrashing counter to the lay of muscle drawn tense over bone as Richard pauses to process: the braid, the tears, the utterance of Jimothy Holden’s name. His eyes are osprey sharp on her in the castle gloom, but challenge is fleeting -- a bristling prickle let off as quickly as he recalls what he wants to be true rarely has any bearing on reality.

He’s stump still for a brief absence, easily jostled.

A click marks the slide of his key through the lock a moment later; he opens the door for her.

Given an inch, the snake up his sleeve dashes deeper into the linen of his tunic.