Susan leans against a fence post, watching him, fingers curled around her canteen and bow hooked over her chest. Watching Lancelot train while the morning twilight gradually lightens is like staring at her bedroom lights in some queer and inexplicable way: her vision dances, the cold recedes.

She doesn't bother making her presence known, yet. She's feeling a little quiet at the moment, and anyway, she's happy to drink in the way he exercises his strength and precision while he doesn't know he's being observed.