Eleven

That question slams the doors in Harrow's expression again, her thin, pointed face going rigid and cold. The truth claws inside her ribcage and tries to fight its way up her throat, and she shoves it down again, sinks it as fully as she can--just as she'd done her whole life. Just as she'd had to do, because she learned too well the consequences of indiscretion.

"I do not think," she says. "I know. And the reasons why are mine to hold."