He stood up. He did not come to the bars.
"Sabra," he said.
"Eben."
They looked at each other. She had thought she might feel something enormous, rage or grief or pity, some great wave that would knock her down, and she had braced for it all the way from Corbel. It did not come either. What she felt, looking at him, was something smaller and stranger, and it took her a moment to recognize it. It was the feeling of looking at a house you had once lived in, from the road, years later, and seeing that someone had painted the shutters a different color.
"He brought it, then," Eben said.
"He brought it."
"I told him you'd burn it."
"I read it."
He nodded slowly. He looked down at the book on the floor and did not pick it up.