Eleven

El's pity is an insult, the stark clarity of it on her face only disgusting Harrow further--and when the question comes, it's the final, shattering blow to whatever fragile thing they'd been building between them. Harrow's fingers twitch, the skeleton arm still hanging off the bookshelf duplicating itself in an instant. It multiplies into a network of arms, a screen and shield to keep the younger girl back as Harrow turns and starts to flee.