The first ride cuts through the Swiss pre-dawn, and by midmorning they are winding up a narrow road into the Alps, the carriage hired at the last jostling them against each other on the back seat. Arya's coat is open again, the gold chains pooled between her breasts, and Aru's hand rests on her thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles that drift higher with each switchback. The driver doesn't look back.

The cabin sits at the edge of a tree line, wooden walls dark with age, a thin trail of smoke curling from a chimney that was lit by whoever Arya texted in the car . She hasn't shown him the messages. She pushes the door open and pulls him inside by the lapel of his coat.