Remy dumps out a suitcase on their bed, and she looks up startled from her papers.

"What are you doing?" Rogue asks.

"There's this poem," he tells her, even as he's pulling out clothes from their drawers and closet, packing them in. "'Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.'"

"What are you talking about?" Still bewildered.

Remy stops then, goes to her, and takes her face in his hands. "You taken the dose?"

She nods.

"Sun ain't standing still, chèrie," he says softly.

She sucks in her breath.

"Let's make him run."

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