So she knows. There's a strangely uncomfortable relief at that. Like sliver-thin cracks sighing into fissures, dust-fine rubble crumbling out, in a buckling stone. Her eyes glisten, and she attempts to blink it away.

She's not alone.

"I've kept him at bay by withholding what I know. Most of it. David -- I..." She shakes her head in self-admonishment. "I couldn't stop myself."

Unbeknownst to her, her hand is squeezing Zoya's. The other is squeezing itself. She glances, paranoid, to the room's egresses. To the shadows.