The master suite of the Armitage estate was silent, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the rhythmic, artificial ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. Arm lay against the pillows, his posture relaxed, his eyes wide and fixed on a point in space—a masterpiece of staged vacancy.
Inside his mind, however, the "Ice King" was wide awake, his thoughts a frantic, high-speed calculation. He remembered every second of the night in the conservatory eleven years ago. He remembered the smell of the wet earth on his skin, the weight of the shovel, and the agonizing, sharp twist in his chest when Mild had taken Mike's hand. He remembered the way the candlelight had caught the lie in Mild's eyes—a lie he hadn't understood then, but understood with a bleeding clarity now.
Mild sat on the edge of the mattress, his fingers trembling as he reached out to brush a stray hair from Arm's forehead. He was desperate to find a spark of the man who had once sacrificed his dignity for a dare.
