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“Olive,” Edward says softly.

I try to focus on him, but his face swims and grips the edge of the table.

“I am fine.” No one believes me.

Alcott’s expression sharpens. “You are not.”

“I said I am fine.” My voice sounds distant.

Wrong. The map tilts. The markers become black beetles crawling over the world, the Caribbean, Spain and the Philippines.

Then America. England. How many? How many girls? How many boys? How many mothers screaming into pillows because the law had been purchased before their child was taken? My lungs refuse to work properly. I inhale and nothing enters.

Edward stands immediately. “Olive.”

“I am fine.” It comes out broken this time.

Damn it. Damn me.

My hand flies to my chest as if I can force it open from the outside. The room shrinks. The shelves lean inward. The lamps become too bright and every color in the room sharpens until it hurts. Too much. Too much. Edward reaches me first.

His hands come to my shoulders. “Look at me.”

“I cannot—”

“You can.” His voice is firm but not cruel. “Look at me.”

I try. His face appears in pieces. Pale hair. Dark eyes. Mouth drawn tight with fear he is attempting to swallow for my sake.

“Breathe with me,” he says.

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can,” he orders.

“I cannot.”

Lazarus moves closer, and Edward’s head snaps toward him. “Do not crowd her.”

Lazarus freezes. The command in Edward’s voice is sharp enough to cut. Alcott lifts both hands slightly. “No one is taking her from you, brother.”

Edward looks as though he might argue or bite. Perhaps both.

I would have found it amusing if I were not attempting to drag air through a chest that had become a locked room. Lazarus’s voice softens from several feet away. “Darling Widow, I have something that may help.”

I laugh once. It sounds nearly mad. “If it is whiskey, I will throw it at you.”

“Not whiskey,” he states, vanishing toward a cabinet along the back wall then returning with a small tin. When he opens it, the scents of chocolate, spice, and butter curl into the room.

I stare at him. “You have panic biscuits?”

“Special biscuits.” He gestures with the tin at me.

Alcott narrows his eyes. “Lazarus.”

“What?”

“How special?” Alcott inquires.