Her fingers are curled around one of the bars of the cell next to his, tiny and cold, two knuckles scraped raw.

(She shouldn't be able to see what they've done to his wings; there's a wall between them. She can see it even so, and that doesn't seem in any way strange, lost in the buffeting currents of grief and rage and terrible fear.)

"They killed Papa," she whispers, small and shaky as the heartbeat of a mouse in the snow. "And Julius, and -- they took Mama away, and Percy --"