Paul could correct her. He could explain that he has offered Harrowhark the notes whenever she wants them, in the oblique way he communicates with her. He could explicate the difference between reading the notes for what's in them opposed to reading them for who wrote them. He could outline his suspicions that Harrowhark would be doing both the same way Paul does, has (sifting for - what? for evidence of a miracle three times over?). He could unravel the whole sad mess of lost swords and found pencils and the hands that held each. He could build a wall out of words between her and him and what he meant, and it would still dissolve under her attentive, guileless affection.

There's no one else here to hide from. There's no one else to hear the awful, quiet sound from the back of his throat, or to see his jaw spasm and arms tighten around himself. But there's also no one else to perform for, which means that Paul lets the moments draw out long between them.

"What if I want him to?" Paul asks, and he doesn't know which him he means, except for all of them. "What if I want you to? What would that even mean, if I want that?"