She could remember one of those nights when she lay crouched on the ground, drowning her sorrows in tears. Rebecca had strolled in, her hair dangling majestically behind her, and said,
"The world is cold, especially when you are different. It does not care about your age, and being a child is consequential. Clean your tears or keep crying; this is your choice to make. But I can assure you, it can only get worse from here." And how right she had been— it did get worse, until Lucien happened and filled her solitude with warmth. A warmth that would go away should Lucien die.
She shifted, cradling her head in her folded arm.
