He let go of her hand, left her with the key. Keys, locks, doors. Same old same old. Il triello. Some things never change, do they? Keys and locks and doors. Still--he let her hold the key and slipped that hand down to her waist. Still holding her, still too close. He found the curve of her neck under her hair and kissed it.

"You have the key," he whispered. "You're free, as far as I'm concerned. Whether you go or stay," he kissed her neck again, "Is up to you."