The way he says her name urges her forward, a few more steps to where they nearly touch, to where they nearly share the same air. She doesn't understand this either - this place, how they can be from different times - but she cannot admit that, admit such a weakness.

"I do not have to be what you think I am," she murmurs. "I have not lied about what you think I have, Athos." About Thomas. About what happened that day so long ago.