"Oswin," Autor says, soft and unsure. He floats to her again and wraps her up in his embrace, smelling the sharp tang of metal.

Is it just him, or is her skin hard and cool? He wants to believe the lie, wants to smell rose oil and cloves, wants to listen for a heartbeat--which he can't hear.

He's parched, so he draws a breath through his nose. "I still love you. No matter what form you take."