Throughout Bastien nods intermittently. He knows it. Quick. Damaging the bodies—maybe, adds the wobbling quality of that specific nod, hopping past fire and to the terrible and prolonged business of doing it manually. (Fire would be better. Fire might draw some of the city guards and nosy observers standing between them and the docks out of their path.)

His eyes flick to Gwenaëlle, then to Isaac, then to the ceiling.

"The other one—do you think he can be woken? That's two tries, if one won't talk. Or to see they corroborate."