His cell had been dark. It still was, it just wasn't his anymore. He wouldn't be going back, and needed to remind himself every few breaths. He wouldn't suddenly wake from this dream to guards shoving him along dim, cold corridors. He propelled himself slowly up the stairs to his attic room of his own accord. It was strange to move about on his own, to be touched with respect, to have his hand shaken and his arm clasped, his back patted. Strange to be welcomed. Everyone stood close, smiling, pleased to see him, no one barked for them to move apart. Even with Thomas, where no love was lost, he wouldn't have to watch for the glint of metal in scarred hands.

He knew he would be flooded by people when they walked in. He could steel himself against it, but he couldn't steel himself against her. She'd kissed him so deeply in the courtyard he still felt it. It had left him half hard and trembling. They had both needed a moment to collect themselves.

He hadn't flinched yet, flinched much. He opened the door to his room and could smell her. Not any chambermaid. His Anna.

The room was spotless. Cleaner than he left it. She had been here. Not just to dust, either. She'd spent time in his room. He walked to the bed and lifted his pillow to his face. It smelled of her hair, of her skin. He held it to his chest and sighed. The grief she'd endured because of him. A white square shone from where it had been pressed flat beneath the pillow and his blanket. He smiled, held the delicately embroidered handkerchief to his lips. He didn't deserve her.