He takes it and turns it around in his hand. "Such a little thing," he muses. "And yet it vexes me so much." She does not know whether he means her or the key itself. He turns it a final time and grasps the head firmly. Instead of touching her with his hands, she can now feel the cold bite of the tip of the key on her. He traces patterns across her skin with it. On her shoulder, on her arm. Back to her shoulder. Over the soft skin over her breast bone.