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“Moderately.”

“Define ‘moderately.’”

Lazarus ignores Alcott and breaks off a small piece, no bigger than a coin. He holds it out to me like one might offer food to a wounded animal.

“It may ease the edges,” he says. “Only a little. You do not have to take it.”

Edward’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “You do not have to take anything.”

“I heard him,” I snap, then immediately regret it. Edward does not flinch, but something in his face softens. That nearly ruins me more than the panic. I take the small piece from Lazarus and put it in my mouth.

Chocolate, cinnamon, a hint of orange. Infuriatingly delicious.

“There,” Lazarus says carefully. “Just that much.”

I glare at him. “Do not speak to me as though I am a startled horse.”

He presses his lips together. “Of course not.”

“You were absolutely about to say mare,” Alcott murmurs.

“I was not.”

“You were.”

Lazarus looks offended. “I have tact.”

Edward snorts, it is a small sound and somehow, absurdly, it helps. I close my eyes and lean forward until my forehead touches Edward’s chest. He goes very still, then his arms slowly come around me. As though I might vanish if held too quickly. I hate needing it, and I hate how much I need it.

“You are safe,” he says against my hair.

The words tremble through me. Am I?

No. None of us are. But his arms feel like a door barred against the world, and for one moment, I allow myself to stand behind it. Lazarus remains near the table, uncharacteristically quiet. Alcott too, but as we continue planning, Alcott tries to step forward to touch me, as Edward’s eyes lift his gaze at his brother. A warning. Alcott stops.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mutter against Edward’s chest. “I am not a pastry you must guard from thieves.”

“You ate the pastry,” Lazarus says.

I lift my head just enough to glare at him. He bows slightly. “Poor timing. Apologies.” Lazarus leaves the room for a moment, then returns.

Alcott’s mouth twitches, as Edward still does not release me. After several minutes, the worst of the panic begins to loosen. It recedes enough that I can breathe without feeling as though my ribs have been stitched shut.

“I need the lavatory,” I say.

Edward’s arms tighten for half a second before he lets go. “I will come with you.”

“No,” I order.

His jaw sets, so I place one hand against his chest.

“I need one moment where no one is looking at me like I am shattering.” My words land.

His expression falls. I regret that too. God, I am exhausted by regret.

“I will be just outside,” he says.

“No, just stay here. We need a plan.” Edward pleas softly.