She lets the hand stay, doesn't move away from it, but. "She used what was inside me already. It's not as though she put anything into me that wasn't already there. She twisted it, used the connection back to Malachite . . . but don't you understand? It was all there. I just wasn't strong enough to keep it back."

Her voice hasn't risen; there's no accusation in her tone -- just the edge of a plea, though it's hard to say for what. Still, though, she's not pulling away. This is the worst part of her, placed out onto the table for the world to see. While she's not -- can't be -- sorry to have that anger, it scares her sometimes with its virulence. Up until now for the most part, her rage has been her own burden, and she hasn't felt that it truly affects anyone but her.

There were benefits to not caring about anyone else. That luxury is gone.

Now . . . it's exposed, bare to the world, and it's been used like a knife against people she's come to dare to feel for. The others . . . they've been so kind, so understanding. But she doesn't deserve it. How can she?

She wants that forgiveness -- needs it, craves it. But how can she take it? How can they really offer it if they don't really see what she is?

Maybe he'll understand that. She dares to hope he'll understand that when he's been used himself.