She knew when she woke up.
Not from an alarm — from the quality of the morning. The specific quality that had announced every significant day she could remember. Not a feeling exactly. More like: the air in the room had changed its register. The way a surgical theatre felt different before a complex case, not louder or different in any measurable way, just: present.
She lay still.
The bond was warm. Caelen — who had been settled for the better part of a week — was pointed. Not urgently. The way a compass pointed. Just: direction. Specific direction.
Toward bay four.
She didn't move immediately.
She'd learned, over two years, that some mornings deserved to be received before you acted on them.
This was one of those.
*Solène,* she said.
*Yes,* Solène said. She was already awake. She
