L U P A C H I O T T A.

Lucrezia’s smile is slow. It sharpens at the edges a little, both amused and pleased by Catherine’s decision to turn the question around and force it to take a different shape. To give it the illusion of landing far from its mark to hide the fact it had hit its target, as planned, squarely. Invisible blood blossoms, though concealed. Sometimes it was answers like these, the ones that avoided the truth, which said more than honest straight-forward responses. Hidden pain meant a deeper wound that was no doubt far more complex and considerably less easy to dress than the gunshot graze torn into pale flesh. “Are you sure about that?” The alternative example is accepted, still keen to make her point. “Everything consists of options. I’d like to think Regina weighed up the risks before accepting the position. After all, she’s made herself the perfect person to frame should something go wrong. If Juliana were to accidentally kill someone, who do you think Cosimo and Vivianne would let the blame fall on? His precious daughter? Or your sister, who murders for a living and makes for a very believable suspect?” Her voice drops, sweet and soft despite the subject matter. “We all make choices. Regina chose the option that makes her valuable yet vulnerable.”

She hums, the sound trapped behind pursed lips, not quite in agreement but close enough. The importance of this war seemed warped in the minds of some people, as though they hadn’t quite grasped that there were some Montagues who would gladly take away everything they had, strip them down to nothing, meaningless creatures. Lucrezia is almost grateful to see the pain written across Catherine’s face, penance for suggesting that pride shouldn’t underline everything they do; as if their entire empire hadn’t been built by a man who wanted honour to sit upon the shoulders of those who had been trodden into the dirt by those with power and wealth. Attention returning to the first aid kit, she pulls out a half-empty packet of ibuprofen. Pushes two through silver foil. Holds the twin pills up to the blonde’s lips. “Here. You’ll have to swallow them dry.” Rather than drop her hand immediately, she strokes a tender path over a freckled cheek with the back of her knuckles. “That will take away the pain.” For now.

“Perhaps they would,” Lucrezia responds airily, packing away the medical supplies to set aside for collection later, satisfied with her handiwork. She stands, grateful to stretch out her legs after kneeling at the captain’s side. “But you have much more potential, Catherine. More than you might realise and, in my opinion, more than they realise.” A small, mournful sigh is exhaled as if disappointed. “You just have to choose to pursue it. Pick the best option.” With a nod towards the doors, she adds, “Would you like me to take you home?”

.

She realizes in this instant that she’s at a loss when it comes to Lucrezia Falco, who makes for a terribly bright emissary—the likes of which, Catherine’s fears cruelly taunt, she’ll never make. There’s a brief moment of panic, a breath of dread; she’s acutely aware that she could be la capitana forever and never la emissaria, forever doomed to deal directly with violence rather than indirectly... With a huff of a breath, Catherine does her best to dispel both the thoughts and Lucrezia’s alternate view on Cat’s sister: that Regina is nothing more than a glorified scapegoat with a knack for murder. “You can’t believe that the Capulet triumvirate would ever allow their crown jewel to commit an accidental murder,” the blonde replies. “Dai, actions taken by la principessa typically don’t result in glaring mistakes and even the few that do aren’t as egregious an error as unintentional murder.” And Regina—meticulous, calculating, and purposeful—seemed too well-versed in the realm of death to be caught in an instance of committing a murder that she didn’t intend to carry out. “Non lo so—we all have our own opinions.” And Catherine doesn’t have enough bandwidth to continue to listen to Lucrezia’s and not wilt or sway in response to the angry, freshly-wrapped wound on her thigh.

Il capi are supposed to be strong, after all; Cat can’t help but feel that Lucrezia’s role as nurse is accompanied by a different role of bloodthirst—constantly looking and prodding and poking at weaknesses to exploit.  "And what choice did you make, Lucrezia?” Catherine asks after she takes the Tylenol, hellbent on twisting the focus of the conversation from herself to Lucrezia, who continues to spin her sickly-sweet web around Cat by taunting her—You have more potential than both you and your superiors realize, the Falco woman coos, make the right choice.

Which is why, when the emissary offers to take her home, she declines. Pushing herself up from her seat, wobbling a bit, Cat murmurs, “No, I wouldn’t.” To soften the blow, a ghost of a smile flits across her lips. “I’m fine, thank you.” For added measure, the captain motions to her bandaged thigh, blue hues quick to not linger so as to not draw attention to the pain not yet dulled by the painkiller. She makes a mental note to take Theodora’s sangue di fata when she gets home. 

“Addio, Lucrezia,” Catherine says as she limps from the office, teeth clenching together to distract from the pain. “Let me know if you need anything else from me for la capobastone’s report.”

Even as Catia insists it wasn’t his fault, his own fears betray him. Isn’t it? He, who’d captained Maeve and led her down a path towards destruction. He, who never encouraged her to leave but put a Beretta in her hand, before replacing it with a knife when she claimed it didn’t suit her. Always considering of duty over morals, survival over what truly is right. What kind of role model can Everett claim to be when he himself is so thoroughly rotten?

Never again. He won’t make the same mistake twice, if some fresh-faced recruit joins the Capulets. Won’t take them under his wing and watch them turn into a shell of what they once were, won’t reach out and attempt to shield them from the horrors of war. If they see those horrors, perhaps they’ll flee instead of staying, lulled to complacency under the false promise of protection from a mentor who can’t truly deliver it. He can’t do that to someone else and watch them spiral to the same fate, not when Maeve — when she —

Another shuddering breath. Everett’s attempts to regain some sort of composure fail to find traction amidst the grief threatening to swallow him whole. Catia’s voice echoes in his ears as if from some faraway distance as Everett continues to struggle against the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that stretches out before him like a dark sea with no shore in sight. How can she be so calm? In the ruins of his self-control, Catia carries a poise beyond her years as she holds him. Everett has no idea where she learned that strength from, or whether it’s a virtue that’s flourished within her for years without him realizing. It’s strange, receiving comfort from a girl who’s sobbed into his arms countless times over the past twenty-one years — and yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong, though a part of Everett feels selfish for not being able to ease her hurts in return.

He doesn’t respond, not trusting himself to speak further than his raging emotion will allow. It’s easier to release them through the tears that slip down his cheeks, easier to cling silently to comfort that Catia’s words offer him than attempt anything else while the image of Maeve’s body on a stretcher, mouth blown to pieces, is still branded like a nightmare at the forefront of his mind. In the midst of such turmoil, the minutes grow meaningless. Whether ten or thirty, Everett can’t be certain, but eventually, as all things do, the initial wave of ugly grief finally subsides. Silence wavers in her apartment as they sit together on her sofa, a tangle of stiff limbs and liquid tears.

He pulls away at last. “Who knew you’d grow to be such a strong young woman?” he murmurs, voice thick as a watery ghost of a smile flickers hollowly across his lips. Everett wipes the heel of his hand across his cheeks, taking in a deep breath, eyes slipping shut as he finally claims an empty victory over his shattering loss. “I’m sorry I —” He begins, then stops. “I tried to get the brunt of it out in the car, but…” Everett reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together before squeezing gently. He wishes, desperately, that he had words of wisdom, or of hope, but his emotions have already been bled dry. Instead, he simply fixes red-rimmed eyes on her features, simply offering her the compassion of his heart. “How are you feeling, tesora?”

Who knew you’d grow to be such a strong young woman? Everett asks, and a near-rueful smile ticks the edges of her lips upward. Her body taunts her, betrays her; she wants to believe Everett, she does--but how can she, when it feels as though something inside of her has irreparably shattered?

She doesn’t feel strong. She feels quite the opposite: weak and crumbling, just waiting for a strong enough gust of wind to completely topple her over. She feels empty, feels like she’ll never recover from this monstrous grief that hollows her bones and settles in the place of marrow. She feels as though she’ll never quite know where things went wrong with her dearest friend—if she could even call her that, still.

What dearest friend wouldn’t know that the other was on the verge of committing suicide? What dearest friend wouldn’t be enough to convince the other that life is worth it, that things will get better, that they’d never have to be alone?

The thoughts sting; their aftertaste is acrid. Catherine’s expression is schooled into something bitter and broken, and her hand squeezes his tightly. This helps her to focus on the present—on Everett, on the misplaced guilt that weighs mercilessly on his chest, on the likes of those who live to carry the ghost of Maeve around their neck like an albatross. For her sake (though, for Everett’s, too), her thumb draws small and comforting circles across the back of his hand. It’s an acceptance of the apology she never wanted from him because she doesn’t see him as guilty—but if it’s what he needs, she’ll give it. This helps her, too, grounding her so that she doesn’t lose herself in the agony of knowing that of being close but not close enough, of why she didn’t think to reach out to Maeve, why she didn’t know something troubled her so deeply...

So, when the Craven man asks how she is, she softly responds: “Numb.” Her pale blue gaze is downcast, and she presses her forehead against his chest. She’s grateful for his beating heart more so now than ever, its steadiness in spite of the tumult that swirls around them both serving as an anchor. Catia breathes in deeply; the exhale is a near shudder.

Brielle: I have. I have bad news. I — [she cuts off, unsure how to say more.]

Katya: Sciocchezze, amore mia. Any time you call is fine with me.

“There’s always another option,” Lucrezia says, because it’s true; because even though it was a harder choice it was still there; because every action performed on behalf of Cosimo Capulet was a conscious one made by those who could just as easily refuse and face the consequences if they were so inclined. Her gaze lifts, lingers, and then returns to the bloody work at hand while a smirk lingers like a kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Your sister chose another option, didn’t she?” She rarely intends to be mean, merely provocative. It was interesting, the way people responded to things they otherwise kept guarded – she’d sooner evoke a heated reaction than partake in a dull conversation about the weather, prying her way past civil niceties to reach the rich meat within. 

“What?” she echoes back, the word landing with more blunt force than Catherine’s. “Don’t tell me you’re so naïve as to believe you don’t have death on your hands? I guess some don’t like to admit it to themselves but you’ve played a part in civilian deaths too, I imagine.” Were her words too difficult to swallow? Surely by now the golden gilded allure of the mob had worn away, leaving behind the inescapable truth that they all carried blame ( albeit an easier weight for some than for others; Lucrezia was particularly fond of the comfort it gave her, like the presence of a warm scarf on a cold day ). Saline bottle exchanged for a tube of antibiotic cream, concentration prevents her from saying anything further, her brow furrowed as she works. She had been twelve when she’d first seen a wound worse than a graze: one of her father’s orchard pickers slicing their palm open on the blade of a saw. Since then, she’s grown intimate with the sight. Beautiful in its own morbid, life-reminding way.

“A Capulet captain who’s unwilling to kill Montagues during a war is, well–” she applies gauze, white fabric marked with the blood staining her fingertips, winding it tightly around Catherine’s thigh, “–about as useful as an attack dog with no teeth, wouldn’t you say?” The emissary pauses her efforts to wipe a stray hair from her face. A smudge of red decorates her forehead thereafter. Gaze unwavering, she tucks the end of the bandage in on itself, searching the porcelain doll-like features of the younger woman for signs of cracking. The smile that follows is slow. Purposeful. “So? Have you learned to bite?”

Perhaps there is always another option for women like Lucrezia, but for golden daughters like Catherine Daly, for the last of the Daly family to join up and further steep the name in Capulet blood money, for a girl-turned-woman who’s only recently begun to act with her Capulet standings in mind, there is not. Catherine hikes a brow at what she assumes is a jab at Grace’s defection to the Montagues, a mirthless breath passing through her lips. “I hardly think Regina agreeing to be Don Capulet’s assassin was much of a choice for her, Lucrezia,” the blonde cheekily responds, deciding instead to talk about Regina’s relatively recent promotion. 

Cat clenches her jaws at the emissary’s biting echo, her ‘What?’ grating against her ears. Not once has she stopped to think about the number of lives she’s taken, deciding instead to remember them as people--and the only person she can think of, of course, is Stefano Mazzi, a Montague who met his demise after attacking Rafaella in her own office. In truth, the young capitana doesn’t know how many lives have been lost as collateral damage because of her actions--and she doesn’t want to know.

Still, Lucrezia wants an answer and she refuses to balk so quickly, even though her leg angrily throbs beneath the Falco woman’s touch. “I know what I’ve done,” Catherine says evenly, “and I know that there’s no need to brandish the number as though it’s something to be proud about.” She pulls her leg back once she’s finished, careful not to move too abruptly. Her vision blurs at the edges due to pain and she sinks further into the seat. 

Aren’t you going to kill me?

The world stutters to a stop. Grace’s heart hiccups in her chest, and she’s grateful that she’s already set her gun down, that she’s already moving to Catherine’s side because she thinks if she hadn’t been, she would have done something really stupid like drop the gun, or maybe shoot a hole in her wall in the split second of white-hot rage that passes over her.

Catherine had come here to die. She broke in - or, let herself in, or whatever she did - and waited here because she’d thought Grace would shoot her on sight. She came here to be killed, and Grace had, in some part, followed exactly the steps her sister had imagined for her. The realization crashes into her like a wave, leaving her breathless, unfamiliar guilt pressing heavy on her chest. She feels, abruptly, like she might vomit.

The blankness in Catherine’s eyes scares her. It has nothing and everything to do with the alcohol she’s just consumed, a dulling force to further numb the grief that drove her here in the first place and left her here, all arrested movement, as a sitting duck. The whine in her voice is grounding, strangely, but Grace still feels like her brain is skipping, whirling furiously through every possible reason, every implication of how they ended up here, Grace as her sister’s path to deliverance. Everything fuzzes around the edges and she scrambles for another swig of vodka. It burns going down, just as she feels she might catch flame.

Even in her grief Catia is diplomatic, and Grace has a sudden hysterical urge to laugh, laugh at their stupid, wonderful father’s deep and uncompromising love for his children, at the good breeding that’s ingrained itself so thoroughly into her youngest sister, at the absurd horror of the situation they are now in. “Yes, well,” she says, mouth twisting wryly once she’s found herself capable of words, “He’s always loved us too much.” It’s both everything and nothing of what she wants to say, but the sight of Catia’s tears stop her in her tracks once again. It’s not that she’s never seen her sister cry - far from that - it’s that those other times had all been mockeries of the grief she sees pouring from Catherine, empty shells that Grace only recognizes as such now. She wants to pull back; she wants to gather Catherine to her, tender and motherly, an impulse she’s never had before. For a single stunned moment she can only watch the unravelling, the choked way Catia forces out her words, before she acts, scooting close and throwing her arms around her sister, pulling her up from her crumpled position and into her arms. The hysterical feeling is back, and Grace thinks, stupidly, if this is what Regina feels like every day - dumbfounded by the outpouring of emotions that others feel when she herself feels none.

“Oh, Catia,” she murmurs, stroking her sister’s back on instinct more than anything else. Her throat feels raw despite the fact that she’s not the one crying “I’m so sorry. I know -” she starts, and stutters to a halt again, because she doesn’t - doesn’t know what it feels like to lose someone like this, irrevocably, without any warning. No death had ever affected Grace in this way. The closest she’s come, she thinks, is Margherita Craven, but even then she’d been sick for some time, and she wasn’t so close, so integral to herself like she knew Maeve to be for Catia. A traitorous part of herself whispers after Rafaella, but that was different - that had been Grace’s own fault, and it wasn’t as if she was dead. “Kitty Cat,” she whispers through her sister’s hiccuping sobs, “talk to me. Please. What happened?”

Yes, well, he’s always loved us too much.

Catherine likes to think she’s well-versed in terms of love. She, the golden child of Louis and Simona Daly, has been both the recipient and the giver for as long as she can remember. She’s received nothing but love from her father and mother; she’s received nothing but love from Everett, from Theodora, from Brielle. And in turn, she’s done nothing but give--to Ev, as his sweetest godsister; to Theo, as their lucciola; to Brie, as her девушка; and Maeve... Her stomach twists uncomfortably. Perhaps it’s Louis’ love that keeps his darling daughters alive. Perhaps love—fierce, willfully ignorant, bullheaded love—would have been enough to keep Maeve alive. 

Grace says that Louis has always loved his daughters too much, but all Catherine hears is that she didn’t love Maeve enough. She thinks back to all the times when she wasn’t there for her best friend, the times when she acted so against the upstanding woman Maeve once thought her to be... She’s reminded of the anguish in Maeve’s expression as they discussed what occurred between Santino Gallo, Theodora Moreau, and herself; in the next thought, she’s reminded of Maeve’s response to Catherine’s first kill: You are one of my dearest friends, and I adore you. Nothing will change that.

Again, she brokenly laments; she cries, horridly and chokingly, in Grace’s arms, frame shuddering under all the drunken grief that settles unforgivingly atop her. She thinks of Everett and the grief she so desperately tried to dispel from his shoulders--the grief she now bears. “I wasn’t there,” the blonde chokes out in response to stuttered apologies. She wasn’t there for Maeve so she warrants no apologies; she wasn’t there enough to remain as present in the younger woman’s life as she’d have wanted; she wasn’t there. 

And now, she won’t get the chance to be.

Like her breath alone can conjure all light and all poetry, Catherine’s very nearness makes Maeve buoyant. It’s a strange and new feeling: this lightheartedness like she is floating in the middle of the sea. Once, Catherine grounded her. With a resolute strength that would not waver and a sweetness that never soured, Catherine pulled Maeve from lofty skies and sobered her to a reality that would not hurt her, would not harm her.

Now, Maeve isn’t sure whether Catherine will walk with her to the end of this road, where love doesn’t burn and kindness doesn’t bear a bloody price. Still — still, it’s enough that Catherine stays. It’s enough that she makes Maeve’s fluttering, frail heart sing. She could take a finger and run it along the curve of Catherine’s smile, let it linger at the cupid’s bow; it still would not be enough to savor the sight of Catherine happy.

Even if it means watching Catherine become an unholy angel. Even if it means trailing behind her and trying to cover Catherine’s terrible crimes with love, with friendship, with a grace that comes by violence.

“Oh, they better!” Maeve grins, a wicked gleam in her eye. “But do you think Cosimo and Vivianne even know what it’s like to have friends?”

She heaves an exaggerated sigh of relief when Catherine quiets the roar of her worry. “I guess it’s harder than it looks, huh? Theodora is really something.” The awe in her voice is understated, but present nonetheless. It makes itself known in the way Maeve’s lips tenderly wrap around their name: Theodora. They are unlike any Capulet she’s ever met, and her heart still skips a beat when remembering how kindly Theodora had assured Maeve’s own insecurities. It’s no wonder Catherine loves Theodora.

“I don’t know too much. Just enough to get people interested, and then sell it. But the science-y stuff…” Maeve waves a hand in the air as if to brush all that she does not know aside. “I don’t know too much about that.”

Do Cosimo and Vivianne know what it’s like to have friends? Catherine entertains the thought, the notion of il Capo and his right hand having friendships based on merit and not assured mutual destruction enough to elicit a smirk. “Maybe they did,” the blonde responds with a shrug, blue hues flicking mischievously. It’s easy for Catherine to see Vivianne as a woman with friends, what with ghost-like memories of the Sloane woman at a handful of Craven-Daly events. Surely, Vivianne had changed from a woman with friends to one without, what with her losing Everett. 

Catherine doesn’t spend much time thinking about it much longer; Maeve’s praise of Theodora rings clear and true. “They’re incredible,” the blonde says in agreement. “They create the drugs from scratch; I simply learn from them until I’m able to replicate it. I wouldn’t dare try to cut or mix them with something else.” Not without Theodora’s advisement and that would defeat the entire purpose. 

“Okay, I can tell you the difference between il anello and il sangue.” Gently, she grabs her friend’s wrist and pulls her towards the different setups of Theodora’s creations that glisten, their chromatic colors enough to dazzle even Catherine who works with them nearly everyday. “This--” she points to faeries ring “--is a hallucinogen that shows no signs of central nervous system depression of the user, which is the biggest contrast to Ambrosia. It’s not addictive; at most, the user will be high for 12 hours.” Her attention turns to faeries blood in both its rose-gold and silver renditions. “And this completely blocks pain receptors, giving users complete euphoria. Everything looks and sounds distorted or intensified, but you feel so warm and light.” She prattles details with ease, her time spent with Theodora coming in handy. 

She’s gone? 

Catia’s face blanches, ghost-like, and Everett wishes desperately he could be stronger for her, that he could be braver, that he could be better — that he could be the kind of man that shelters Catia from the lashing rain and wind even though he failed to do so for Maeve. But Everett doesn’t feel strong, or brave. He’s a weak, weak man, cracking under the weight of an irreversible decision that he’ll spend the rest of his life agonizing over, wondering if he could have done something to change it. Unable to protect her. Oblivious. Incompetent. His conscience drives daggers into his heart, weeping blood like the saltwater that streams from his eyes.

Did he not love her enough? He must not have. He must have fallen short. Everett had shattered so thoroughly in the aftermath of Lillian’s death that he’d neglected Maeve’s suffering before his very eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps quietly, as if Catia can absolve his sins and relieve him of the horrible guilt threatening to strangle him. I’m sorry I didn’t push that night, I’m sorry I didn’t realize she was hurting, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It lodges in his throat even as he struggles to pull himself together. Piece by piece, breath by breath. In, out. He doesn’t bother to wipe the tears baptizing his cheeks, but he manages to look Catia in the eye, sitting upright despite dizzying despair taking root in his stomach. Even one struggling step is better than none, though loss howls through him like winter wind over the mountaintops, so cold and so cutting he’ll be paralyzed before he can even lift a foot.

But when Catia pulls him close, wrapping her arms around him, Everett crumbles.

Every stitch he’s made on his heart in the days following Lillian’s funeral frays and rips as he shuts his eyes, body wracked with shudders. How can a half-healed heart splinter so completely? How can he piece together the man he was after such an infinitely devastating blow? Everett doesn’t know, doesn’t think he’ll ever recover, his grief pressing too close around him to see even the faintest glimmer of hope. He inhales shakily, fingers tightening around Catia’s waist. It’s a promise: I won’t let this happen to you, I’ll give everything to keep you safe and happy. It’s a plea: Please, God, don’t take her from me too.

Her words waver, a brittle thing ready to crack that washes over his ears like indistinguishable waves. It’s Lillian’s name that jars him again, forcing him to face his godsister’s question. “It was her — she…” He swallows, cheek still pressed against her golden hair. “Philip found her with the gun. T-there were… la polizia said…” His breath catches. He refuses to sob, a silent convulsion shaking his ribs. “I shouldn’t have — it’s all my — Madonna Santa,” he says, voice breaking, “I-I should never have taught her to shoot.”

His apology tears through her, unforgiving in the ways it seems to loose itself in her heart like shards of shrapnel. Catherine’s breath hitches, throat tightening in defiance. He shouldn’t be apologizing, he shouldn’t have to do this, none of this should be happening. It’s not Everett’s fault, no matter how he may think it is. His shoulders sag with crushing grief and Catia wants nothing than to share in this sorrow, but she knows the guilt that sits heavy on his chest can’t be matched. “Ti prego non scusarti,” she whispers against his dark hair, wary that if she speaks too loudly, he’ll hear the splintering of heart above the trembling of her voice, “t-this is not your fault.” It’s all she can offer and it’s still not enough... For either of them.

It won’t be enough for Everett, who she’s sure will live with this for the rest of his life and then some--this, this unholy grief, this all-encompassing, mind-numbing and open-ended question: What if? What if he’d answered, what if he’d pressed Maeve and decided that they would talk that night, what if he’d called Phillip and told him to go hold his stellina a bit more tightly that night.... And it won’t be enough for Catherine, either, who can’t wrap her head around why Maeve only reached out to Everett, why Maeve didn’t text her anima gemella in her damning moments of despair, why she didn’t know there was something wrong to begin with... Again, her heart crumbles into smaller pieces than she once thought possible. She chokes on her own throat, a strangled whimper forcing through pursed lips as his fingertips desperately tighten at her waist.

“Shh, shh,” Catia soothes quietly, her hold on Everett tightening as his voice cracks. She doesn’t want to hear anymore--not now, at least--and she doesn’t want to force him to dispel more details that result in the same outcome: Maeve, dead. “Please--” She stops, unsure of what she’s even asking the man. Please bring Maeve back; please stop blaming yourself; please tell me this is a cruel joke; please tell me she was killed, that she wasn’t so unhappy with her life with us that she had to end it--

It’s not often Catherine feels so detached and removed from Theodora Moreau’s lab. In fact, there’s hardly been a day in which the littlest Daly didn’t feel comfortable. From the very beginning, il sovrano delle fata opened their arms and ushered Cat in; they dubbed her their lucciola, and she’s been at home ever since.

But now, this home feels more constricting than freeing, especially with Verona’s budding principessa delle fata’s life having ended so abruptly. She feels the corner of her eyes prickle, but she does not cry. Rather, she caps the solvent with which she’s working and sets it aside, knuckles blanching as she balls her hands, nails digging crescent moons into her palms. 

She can’t do this. She just can’t.