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She leans forward suddenly and presses her forehead against Edward’s chest again. “Do not move.”
“I will not,” he proclaims, studying her.
“Promise?”
Edward’s face changes. “I promise.”
The words are quiet and Alcott’s amusement softens too. I sit back on my heels, watching Edward hold her while she clings to him as though he is the only fixed point in a spinning room. Edward gives her anchorage, a place to come back to when the world grows too loud. Olive’s breathing slows.
Then she lifts her head and looks at me. “Laz.”
“Yes, darling?”
“Am I dying?” she whines, resting her head on Edward’s shoulder, her arms draped around him.
“No.” I giggle to myself.
“Are you certain?”
“Quite.”
“Have people died from biscuits?”
Alcott opens his mouth.
Edward points at him without looking. “Do not.”
Alcott closes his mouth. I reach for Olive’s hand and squeeze her fingers gently and explain, “You are not dying. You are merely very, very altered.”
She frowns. “I dislike being altered.”
“I know.”
“I prefer being in control.” She pouts with her bottom lip.
“I know that too.”
Her gaze sharpens briefly through the haze. “Then why are you laughing?”
The question lands harder than expected. I stop smiling.
“So I do not panic,” I answer honestly.
That seems to satisfy her or confuse her, or possibly both. She looks back to Edward. “He is panicking.”
Edward nods. “He should be.”
“I am not panicking,” I say.
Alcott looks at me. “You are one dramatic declaration away from carrying her through the house and demanding a priest.”
“A physician,” Edward corrects.
“A priest may be faster,” Alcott says.
Olive lifts one hand. “No priests.”
“Agreed,” I say. “A priest would not survive this room.”
