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He covers his mouth with one hand. For a moment, he looks like the boy he is. Then he nods. “I can do that.”

“Yes,” I say. “You can.”

I lean back. “And Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Do not make yourself her savior. It is a tedious role and terribly prone to martyrdom.”

He almost smiles. “What should I be instead?”

“Safe.” The word quiets the room.

“Be safe. Be honest. Be patient. Be someone whose hands do not take. If she comes to you, receive her. If she steps back, let her. If she needs rage, do not fear it. If she needs silence, do not fill it with your panic.”

Arthur looks down.

“Safe,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

Then, because he is young and in love and therefore doomed to be foolish, he asks, “And if I fail?”

I think of Edward. Of myself. Of Darkness. Of all the ways love has failed and returned and failed better.

“Apologize,” I say. “Then learn to be better.”

Olive meets Baba properly three days later. Not in the parlor though, parlors make everyone behave like furniture. Olive chooses the greenhouse behind Le Havre, where fresh dew drops tap against glass and the air smells of damp soil, herbs, and fresh cut flowers. Baba arrives with Arthur at her side, though he stops several paces from the entrance when Olive lifts one brow.

“She may come alone,” Olive says.

Arthur stiffens, and Baba looks at him, a small question passes silently between them. Then Baba steps forward, confidently and quietly alone. Arthur stays behind but he looks as if remaining still may kill him. I cannot help but find it amusing, so I motion him to come with me.

Olive waits inside near a table of potted rosemary. She wears dark green today, her hair loosely braided, sleeves rolled just enough to show the scars along one wrist. Not hidden. Not displayed. Just simply a part of her. Baba notices. Survivors notice maps of pain on other bodies.

“I am Olive,” she says.

“I know.”

“I imagine everyone has been speaking of me as though I am either a cautionary tale or a miracle.”

Baba’s mouth tightens. “A little.”

Olive nods. “How irritating.”

That earns the smallest laugh, a small victory. I stand outside the greenhouse with Arthur, Edward, and Lazarus. We are absolutely not spying as we observe through glass with concern. There is a complete distinction.

Lazarus leans beside me. “Do you think they will murder us for hovering?”

“Olive will,” Edward states as he does not look away from the greenhouse.

“My wife might. She murdered a whole church congregation.” Arthur mutters as Edward and I look shocked between him and his tiny wife through the window. I'll reserve that story for another day.

Lazarus simply pats his shoulder and remarks, “welcome to the family.”

Inside, Olive gestures to the bench as Baba sits, but only on the edge. Olive does not sit beside her, she sits across.

“I was told you prefer Baba Yaga,” Olive says.