Victoire winced—but she deserved that. Merlin, she wanted the ground to open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole. She was being daft, but the way he dropped her had her stomach twisting into her nerves, her heart clenching with frustration. [i]You did this[/i], and the guilt of it was impossible to bear. 

She had to fix this. She had no idea how; he was no broken bone, no transfigured organ, no splinched child. She had no protocols to follow. This was not a thing that could be fixed with magic. If only it was. She wished she could consult libraries to find the right charm, the one that could ease everything between them. It was a foolish hope. Childish.

She’d never been brave, not like Dominique or Louis or any one of her numerous cousins. Not like Teddy, who she had counted as the single most honest man she had ever known. She’d always been hesitant, disliking uncertainty, preferring to keep quiet and stick to the familiar. Her reserve had put her at ends with Dominique for years. She had always been so much bolder, so fearless. With Teddy, Victoire had found her nerve, and Merlin she had felt like she could do anything. She had been scared, yes, but he’d squeezed her hand and she’d been emboldened enough to try anyways. That feeling felt a life time away, as if it belonged in someone else’s memories.

Gears turned in her head, trying to find something diplomatic, something to ease the tension. Everything came up excuses. And then he was leaving, sharp on heel, and no, she couldn’t let it happen [i]again[/i], it had been awful enough the first time—

“Teddy,” she called, moving after him instinctively, trying not to sound as terrified as she felt. The eyes of her family burned through her, and she couldn’t bear to look. She’d known, of course, that they’d blamed her—how could they not? It had been her fault, her stupidity that had made things so awkward, and it shamed her deeply. “Wait, please.”

She had no idea what to say, what to do, reaching out for his wrist, heart slamming in her chest. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not that she had a clue what it was supposed to be like. His skin felt so [i]warm[/i] beneath her fingertips. Merlin, it felt so good to be near him, despite everything, and she couldn’t help but hate herself more for it.

“I—“ she had no idea how to phrase anything, making a frustrated sound. She had never been one for spoken word, finding her voice more in the swirl of ink. Talk seemed so hasty, so prone to miscommunication. Writing gave her time to sort through her thoughts, make sense of her feelings. They were near the edge of the tent, and she had the mad fear that if he walked through the flap, she’d never see him again. It would be easier—but even timid Victoire couldn’t let herself ruin things [i]this[/i] badly. She hooked her hair behind her ear compulsively, a nervous habit. “Look, you’re right—I, that was unkind of me—“

She felt rather like she was babbling. Like she was some idiot child. She swore beneath her breath, feeling guilty even as she indulged the urge. 

“I’m sorry,” she managed finally, willing herself to meet his gaze, hating how weak her voice sounded. She released his wrist suddenly, all too aware that she didn’t have the right.