He'll feel how she tenses, an immediate reflex, before she remembers that she can relax, and embrace him in return. She does not weep herself - that barrier is still too strong, whatever force dictated that she cannot, will not - but if she seems disquieted, let him think she feels the same as he did.

But it won't last. She won't make that mistake again, thinking she can dodge it. There is a gaze she keeps engraved on her memory to remind her of this. Soon, soon, Artemy Burakh will know she is a murderer most abhorrent, whether tonight is a success or a failure. Not tonight, not to drown him in disgust when he seeks a safe place to catch his breath. But soon, and then the choice on whether to still speak to her will be his own.

For the time being, there is this, an embrace that asks to go down to the bones. And if Fever was to be wholly honest, it's something she needs as much as Artemy does.

She will not tell him it isn't his fault. He knows. He has to know - because she knows what it feels like when it is. But responsibility, the crushing, crushing weight of it -

"If it really was solely up to you, they would have all lived. You know this."

One night can't hold all his grief. But it's safer to say it, when the entire island is hushed and weeping.