Ben was committed to this, which meant that Art had to be, too, — or he could pull the ripcord and get them out of it through one of his other dire strategies. Except those were all bad, too — and he could not see his way out of any of them. He wished that he could talk to Desdemona about this. He wished that he could tell Ben you might not want to rely on me right now. He wished, vaguely, that he had the sort of relationship with Melody where he could tell her about this himself, where the thought of being in a room with her didn't make him think of her spitting Desdemona deserves better than you. (He wished he didn't know she was right.)

"Alright," Art said, "Okay." It would be fine. They could do this, and he'd find a way to talk to Valerian, and — this would be fine. He added, with a sheepish little smile: "But promise me you won't die, alright? I —" he could not tell Ben how thin the thread he was hanging on by was, how close he was to just cutting and running, not on the duel but on his family and his job and all of it "— just promise me."

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