She was not hiding her wrists anymore.

The scars were still there — they would always be there — but they had stopped meaning what they used to mean.

For ten years they had been the marks of a cage.

Now, in the open evening air, they were only what they had always secretly been underneath: proof that she had lasted longer than the thing that made them.

Proof of survival.

She caught Caspian’s eye and reached over and laid her hand on his.