"I'm always pale." He smiles, the joke of it weak, the truth of it under the surface: I know, I see it, too. His cheeks are starting to lose their hollowness, but he's yet to chase away the pallor of death. "Bring your book. We can sit outside for a while."

Percy grabs a tome at random and tucks it under one arm - they'll sit out together in this garden or that courtyard, and gods willing, it'll be peaceful for them both. (It's also a guaranteed rest for him, one he'll undoubtedly need; once he gets started walking, it's hard not to push himself to exhaustion. Doing things by half measures? Sounds nice, but who knows how.) And then it's the balance of cane and step, cane and step, resisting the urge to reach for either Vex or Trinket to begin with.

The first few steps are quiet, getting out of their room and on their way. As they emerge into the sunlight - and against all odds, Percy thinks I'm not out of breath yet, and it's true - he asks, "What have you been reading?"