He told her over coffee.
Not planned—he had knocked on her door at seven-thirty with the specific purposelessness of someone who had slept badly and needed somewhere to be that wasn't the apartment where the nightmare had happened, and Sarah had opened the door, read his face with the efficiency she applied to most things, and put a second cup on the counter without asking.
That was the thing about Sarah. She didn't ask.
She assessed, concluded, and acted, and the action was usually the correct one before the conversation that would have produced it had even started. He had noticed this early and had filed it as a professional quality.
He was beginning to understand it was something else—or not something else, but something more, the professional quality sitting on top of a deeper attentiveness that was specifically oriented toward him in a way that had nothing to do with the Warden designation or the Soul Mark or any of the operational reasons they occupied the same radius.
