It was an awful, traitor thought. Because he knew, he knew it would hurt them just as much as it would hurt Clio, if he got himself cut down in some sacrifice move. He could picture Tuck's grief, Marian's horror. It was foolish, and disloyal, to believe otherwise.
But the thought still snuck in there, a cold, quiet thing: They didn't miss me for fifteen years. What difference would an extra twelve-odd months make?
"No," Will said aloud, leaning closer, grounding himself against the solid warmth of her body. "No, 'course not. It's... it's the desperation talking, you're right."