“No, I’m fine,” Handy insisted, though his voice betrayed his exhaustion. The compartment was pleasantly warm, despite winter’s fury only being a panel of glass away. They had made it across the border safely and with their treasure intact, which was now safely stowed away in three crates secured to a wooden wagon they had procured. Handy was far away from Chrysalis and her machinations, the Greenwoods and its horrors, the Mistress and her schemes, and every second brought him closer to a soft bed and a warm meal, and the company of, if not friends, then at least friendly acquaintances. He was in Griffonia. He was safe, despite everything.