“That’s Princess Margaretha of Sweden,” Nysus says quietly. The gold faucet on the sink across from her catches my attention, and a pang of ingrained longing hits hard. It’s both smaller and more dramatic in reality. The gold gleams in our helmet lights, the name Aurora carved in dark swirling letters on both sides. It sets off a strange sense of dislocation in my brain. Like it can’t be real. Or I’m not. But maybe that’s just because of the dead princess floating in the corner.”
