XXXI
Penelope was curled up against one side of the worn couch in the living space, wrapped up in one of Camilla's handmade blankets. The usual dream-like quality to her gaze was different--it was a melancholy sort of look, hardened by what she'd endured. Penelope was staring absentmindedly at the coffee table in front of her, but her mind was somewhere else. She was thinking about what Camilla had said when they were in the Queen's tunnel. It's our lives or theirs.