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Petal looks up from her chair, one hand resting on her belly. “That no one wear a cut?”

“I am not discussing Bitter.”

Nobody says anything. All three women look at me.

Mercy removes her glasses. “We didn’t say his name.”

“I hate all of you.”

“That’s healthy,” Lark says. “Means you’re processing.”

I go back to the practice face before I accidentally restore it into a murder victim.

The carnival keeps moving outside like my heart did not get dragged behind a clubhouse vote this morning. Music comes and goes through the walls. Tourists wander through the school demonstrations. Somebody wins something loudly near the cider booth. Boogie gets on a microphone twice and loses microphone privileges twice.

Through the windows, I keep seeing Bitter. At the south gate. Near the garage. Crossing vendor lane. By the workshop. Across the crowd with Nevermore.

Always close enough that I know where he is.

Never close enough to speak to me.

I tell myself that is what I asked for when I told him not to follow me. Respecting my no should not make me angrier.

It does.

Maybe because some foolish part of me wanted him to fight for the right thing instead of simply obeying after he had already done the wrong one. Maybe I wanted him to spend the afternoon figuring out how to apologize instead of giving me exactly enough space to wonder whether he was relieved I had stopped talking to him.

That is unfair. I know it is unfair.

I also know heartbreak has never been known for consistent policy.

By five, Mercy finally takes the palette knife out of my hand.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaving that poor woman’s cheek down to the table.”

I look at the practice face.

She has a point.

“I can clean.”

“No.”

“Organize?”

“No.”

“Disinfect something?”

Mercy folds her arms.

I sigh. “You’re very controlling for a woman who yelled at Bitter about controlling me.”

“I’m your instructor. It’s different when I’m right.”