Chapter 19 #2
The resentment flared again, but now it carried something sour beneath it. A sense of going too far. Of not stopping when he could have.
“I didn’t stop,” he said quietly.
The words felt dangerous, but once spoken, they demanded more.
“I could’ve just hated her,” he continued. “Everyone did. I could’ve left it there.” His breath stuttered. “But I didn’t.”
The anger surged again, sharp and biting, but this time it didn’t feel justified. It felt compulsive. Like something he’d leaned into because it offered relief from the fear he couldn’t touch.
“What did it give you?” the healer asked.
Symond’s chest tightened painfully.
He didn’t want to answer.
“It made it feel fair,” he whispered.
The admission hollowed him out.
If she suffered, the world balanced. If she broke, then what happened to him meant something.
Shame flooded him, hot and choking.
“That doesn’t make me right,” he said quickly, panic threading through his voice. “I know it doesn’t—”
“I didn’t say it did,” the healer replied.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the fear.
Symond’s shoulders sagged. His hands trembled in his lap, fingers loosening as the fight drained out of him.
“I don’t remember what I did,” he said. “But I know I didn’t want to stop.”
The truth settled deep, undeniable.
Not the anger. Not the resentment.
But the moment where it stopped being reaction and became momentum.
He pressed his lips together, eyes burning.
“I need to know,” he said finally. “I can’t live with it like this.”
The healer didn’t ask him to explain.
She leaned forward and snuffed out the candle. The room dimmed, shadows closing in without fully consuming them.
“That’s enough for today,” she said softly.
Symond nodded and pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt unsteady, his head light, but the world stayed solid beneath him.
∞∞∞
Symond found them in the west gallery.
Violette stood near one of the tall windows, arms folded loosely as she spoke, her voice low and careful. Florence faced her, posture relaxed, head inclined in a way that suggested attention more than authority.
They both looked up when Symond entered.
He barely registered Florence.
“Violette,” he said, the word rough in his throat. He crossed the room without slowing, stopping just short of her. “I need to know.”
Violette’s expression tightened. She glanced briefly at Florence, then back to him.
“Symond,” she said gently, “let’s talk about this later.”
“No.” His hands trembled at his sides. He clenched them into fists, grounding himself the only way he knew how. “I can’t do another day like this. I don’t remember what I did. I don’t remember why I didn’t stop.” His voice dropped. “But I know I should have.”
Florence watched him now.
Not like a commander assessing a soldier.
Like someone witnessing a turning point.
“You’re moving very quickly,” Violette said. “That’s not always—”
“I’m already in it,” Symond cut in. “I can feel it. Whatever I erased, it’s still there. I don’t want pieces anymore.”
Florence stepped forward, close enough to be part of the conversation.
“That makes sense,” she said calmly. “Fragments can be destabilizing. They leave you unmoored.”
Violette’s jaw tightened. “Full restoration isn’t something you rush into.”
Florence inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the point without conceding it. “Of course not. But there is a difference between caution and delay.”
She turned her gaze back to Symond.
“You’re already doing the hardest part,” she continued. “You’re listening to yourself. You know you’re ready.”
Violette stepped closer to him now, lowering her voice. “Ready doesn’t mean safe,” she said. “What you’re asking for will bring everything back. Not just facts. Sensations. Timing matters.”
Florence smiled faintly.
“And so does honesty,” she said. “Healing doesn’t come from avoiding the truth. It comes from facing it.”
Violette’s eyes flashed. “It comes from choosing how you face it.”
Florence’s attention never left Symond.
“You’ve already chosen,” she said softly. “You just haven’t followed through yet.”
The words settled heavy in the space between them.
Symond felt the pull of it—the certainty in her tone, the way she framed his fear as momentum instead of warning. Part of him wanted to reach for that clarity, to end the waiting, to stop hovering on the edge of something he could feel but not name.
But Violette was there.
Steady. Unmoving.
“You don’t owe anyone your memories,” she said quietly. “Not me. Not her. Not The Hive.” She met his eyes. “If you do this, it should be because you are ready to carry it, not because someone tells you that you should.”
Florence’s smile didn’t fade.
“Of course,” she said. “This is entirely your choice.”
And yet—
“I’ll have an alchemist prepare the draught,” Florence added smoothly. “Not for tonight. Just… so it’s available when you decide.”
When.
Not if.
Symond’s chest tightened as he exhaled, each woman’s gaze like a physical weight on his shoulders, Florence’s expectant, Violette’s concerned.
The window behind them framed the setting sun, its fading light casting long shadows across the gallery floor—shadows that seemed to point in opposite directions.
“Not yet,” he said finally.
Violette’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, the tension in her jaw easing.
Florence’s gaze lingered on Symond, her fingers tapping once against her thigh before she straightened her spine. “Very well.”
She pivoted on her heel, footsteps measured and unhurried across the marble floor.
Violette’s eyes tracked Florence until the heavy door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged gallery.
“You did the right thing,” she said softly.
Symond wasn’t sure that was true.
He stared at the window, at the darkening sky beyond it, the sense of inevitability coiling tight in his chest.
“Soon,” he said. Not to Violette. Not to anyone else.
Just to himself.