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“I hate that I could not stop it!” She begins throwing objects at me.

“Yes.”

“I hate that I survived it!”

My smile dies at her statement, for a moment, I say nothing and Olive’s fists clutch the front of my shirt. Her face crumples.

“I hate that I survived it,” she whispers.

The room shifts. There is a line here, even I, who have stepped over so many lines they look like floorboards beneath me, do not touch her. I only stand still while she shakes against me. Then I say, quietly, “Do not hate the part of you that refused to die.”

Her sob catches.

“That part is the only reason you are standing here to hate him at all,” I exclaim.

Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “I feel ruined.”

“You are.”

She flinches at the words, truth hurts less cleanly than lies and I continue before she can vanish into the wound.

“You are ruined in places. So is Edward. So is Alcott, Lazarus and so am I.” My voice lowers. “Ruined does not mean useless. It does not mean owned, ruined does not mean finished.”

Tears fall down her face, I hate that they make me feel anything.

“Then what does it mean?” she asks.

“It means someone tried very hard to destroy you and failed.”

Silence. Morrigan has stopped snarling. Olive stares at me, not through me, at me. The conservatory door opens behind us and Edward walks through, he takes in the room in a single breath. Olive’s tears, my bleeding mouth. Her hands fisted in my shirt and Morrigan ready to commit murder.

His face goes white, then red. “What did you do?”

Olive turns, the movement is small, but it is hers. “Edward.”

He stops; just her voice does it. His gaze moves from me to her. “Did he hurt you?”

Her mouth trembles, then she looks back at me. “No.”

Edward does not believe her. Wise man.

Lazarus appears behind him, hair disheveled, eyes sharp. Alcott thrashes beneath me at the sight of them, furious and desperate to return. Not yet.

Almost. Olive releases my shirt, and her hands fall to her sides. She inhales, shakily, then again.

“I did not deserve it,” she says.

Edward’s expression collapses, Lazarus closes his eyes and I smile faintly.

“There,” I say. “That is a start.”

Edward steps toward her, then stops himself. “May I?”

Olive looks at him. For one long moment, I wonder whether she will say no. She does not. She nods. Edward reaches for her carefully, as though approaching fire he would happily burn in. When his arms come around her, she folds into him with a sound that belongs to grief and relief in equal measure. Lazarus looks at me. There is fury in his eyes and understanding. An intoxicating combination.

“You are a bastard,” he says softly.

“Yes.”