Caspian wakes slowly, uncertain at first what had disturbed him. No sound, he thinks, hazily. The lamplight still glows, warm and steady, but there's the first tinge of grayness to the sky outside that speaks of dawn.

Not enough light to wake him, though. He shifts, and as he does, he realizes Susan's warm frame is no longer tucked against him. Turning onto his side, he reaches for her.

The relief he feels at finding her – curled into a tight ball beneath the sheet and the blanket he must have pulled up over them at some point in the night – is swept away shortly on a wave of adrenaline that wakes him faster than the morning sun.

For she's sleeping – he thinks – but her eyes are open and blank, and it's clear that whatever she's seeing, it isn't him. "Susan," he says, his voice rough with sleep, and runs his hand over her shoulder. "Su?"