Flora pulled her hands away from her face as Rex took one in his own, and she didn't have to look in a mirror to know how pathetic she looked. Bottom lip jutted out, trembling, and dark brows knitted together so tight that it brought out wrinkles she didn't know she had.

"I wanted to tell you," she whispered, "but what would it have done? I'm still a - a killer."

And she would never forgive herself, even if logically she knew there was nothing she could have done to save the woman.

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"You are not a killer," Rex argued emphatically, meaning each and every syllable. "You were in a carriage that killed something—it is not at all the same thing!"

It wasn't entirely ideal, of course, but even now, he and Flora were essentially children. They had little agency over their own lives at the best of times. Mentally, Rex scanned through his memories of his cousin since the fog, wondering how he had missed this monumental thing that had been tugging at her soul in the time since. How could he have been so oblivious?

Flora might not have been guilty for the death of Mrs. Whitledge, but Abraxas was certainly guilty for not noticing anything was amiss before now.

  

Flora looked at Rex, her internal turmoil written across her face. "It's all semantics, Rex," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "A woman is dead. I could have said something—done something—but I did not. I cannot." Perhaps she did not drive the carriage into Mrs. Whitledge herself, but she could have helped ease the pain of a family with a single word.

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Rex squeezed her hand more tightly to punctuate his intent.

"You are not Aunt Annabelle, nor Rosamund nor Eldin," he pointed out. "You are not a healer and could not have saved Mrs. Whitledge, only risked the fate of, at best, your carriage driver and, at worst, your family."

  

Rex's words made all the sense in the world, and yet they did nothing to ease the aching in her chest.

"I know," she admitted, bringing her other hand to rest atop his. "I just don't know what to do with this - this burden." She was nearly in her third year now; two years had passed since the incident, and it was likely that the investigation team had written off the death as an accident by now. Even if they hadn't, and they still sought out the culprits, it wasn't as though she could say anything.

Flora glanced up at him. "But I am glad you know," she said, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

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He gave her what he hoped dearly was a reassuring smile.

"We can carry it together."

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