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His body stills.

“Yes,” I murmur. “You know that, don’t you? You saw it. That little fracture in Alcott. The thing behind the eyes. The one creature in your menagerie you never managed to name properly.”

My fingers rest on the back of his chair.

“You made Edward kneel. You made Alcott split. You fed me without knowing what you were feeding.” I lean down near his ear. “And then you were foolish enough to take something I wanted kept whole.”

His breath shakes and I straighten. “Now here we are.”

For several minutes, I say nothing. Silence, when used correctly, becomes its own instrument. The Collector knows this. He taught boys with silence, the dread of footsteps. I give some of it back, but only a taste. He begins to sweat. Eventually, I move toward the tray of instruments on the table. Nothing dramatic today, no grand procedure, no artistry. Not yet.

This is preservation, not indulgence. I pick up a needle and his eye follows it.

“Relax,” I say. “If you die before Olive is ready, I will be terribly cross.”

He swallows, trying to muster confidence in his tone. “You think she will return to herself?”

I pause. The question is too sincere to be wise so I turn. “She will return to whatever shape she chooses.”

His mouth curls. “And if she chooses nothing?”

My hand tightens around the needle, I understand Edward’s urge to ruin his knuckles on stone, but then I laugh. The Collector’s smile falters.

“If she chooses silence, we will sit in it with her. If she chooses rage, we will sharpen it. If she chooses to never touch another blade, we will cut for her. If she chooses to burn the world, we will bring oil.” I step closer. “But do not mistake patience for doubt.”

He says nothing, so I bend and adjust the edge of his bandage without care. He hisses.

“She will come for you,” I say. His eye glitters with pain. “And when she does, you will look upon every single thing you failed to destroy, and you will cower with fear.”

On the seventh night, we are at Lazarus’s manor as Olive enters the library. No one moves, that is the first miracle. Edward does not leap from his chair, Laz does not speak and Alcott does not drop the book in his hands, though I feel his shock ripple through our body. Olive stands in the doorway wearing a plain black dressing gown. No powder, no jewels, no painted cheeks, and her hair hangs loose down her back, thinner than before but still dark as spilled ink. She looks like a ghost who has become tired of haunting herself. Elisa rises slowly from the sofa.

“I was just reading about the new violet costumes,” she says, voice steady despite the tears gathering in her eyes. “Apparently Fanny says they make her look like a bruised plum.”

A pause. Then Olive’s mouth moves. “Fanny always looked like a bruised plum.”

The tension in the room breaks. Not loudly, no one rushes her, but Edward’s face changes as though he has seen dawn for the first time in his miserable life.

Lazarus bows his head. Alcott’s hands begin to tremble. And I— I watch. Fascinated. A thread of our woman, not the whole woman, but a thread is enough to stitch with. Elisa wipes beneath one eye and smiles. “That is exactly what I told her.”

Olive steps into the room. One step, then another. Edward’s hand grips the arm of his chair so tightly I suspect the wood may crack.

“Olive,” he says.

Her gaze shifts to him, I cannot tell whether she will flee. Then she nods once, small, but given. He bows his head as though she has handed him a crown.

Lazarus speaks next, carefully. “Tea?”

Olive looks at him. Something like memory crosses her face. “Not if you baked anything.”

His mouth trembles, then he chuckles lightly. Brokenly and beautifully, the sound nearly knocks Alcott from his chair. Olive’s eyes move to us, to Alcott.

“You are there,” she says.

The men go still. Alcott recoils inward, startled by her accuracy. I smile with his mouth, “I am.”

Olive studies me, her eyes hollowed but not empty.

“Good,” she says.