Chapter Text
Watching over Bethany is an obligation and a nuisance. Their mother ran off with a Fereldan apostate and they’re the ones to suffer the consequences. Hawke can’t recall a time that her mother has looked unworried or happy. Despite her condition and their difficulties Bethany always smiles.
Hawke doesn’t know if her younger sister is too stupid to recognize the predicament she puts them in or if she’s talented at projecting a positive image. Things have been strained between them but Hawke can’t put a finger on why. Bethany acts no different than usual, bearing Hawke’s moods with grace and charm.
It’s late at night and they’re in their room at Uncle Gamlen’s readying to depart for another of Athenril’s errands. Hawke is not above working with her again if it will mean extra coin. Bethany carefully slips her boot on before giving it one last sharp tug. She runs a hand along the boot, up her calf, to her knee before standing, prepared. She draws back the hair that had obscured her face moments ago, oblivious to how the fireplace lights her. Bethany is more beautiful with every passing day. She takes her staff by the wall and moves to the door beside Hawke. “I’m ready, Sister.”
Hawke grits her jaw. “You took long enough.” She grabs her great sword and leaves her uncle’s home. She’s sure to keep several steps ahead of Bethany. If danger presents itself, it should meet Hawke first, if templars are near they shouldn’t see Bethany at all. Bethany’s safety is Hawke’s top priority, followed by acquiring the necessary coin for the Deep Roads expedition. She always pretends as if it’s the other way around with Bethany’s safety an implied afterthought.
Bethany is always gratingly grateful.
*
“Don’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to be nobility, Sister?”
The question rouses Hawke who had been drifting off to sleep. They’d spent the majority of the day and part of the evening battling rogues and apostates. Hawke is worn down. Bethany and their mother are too obsessed with the past and moving to Hightown. “What’s the point in wondering?” she calls down. “I’ve told you before—this will never be home.”
“I like the idea of having a home—a place to belong.”
“Kirkwall has the greatest templar numbers of any place we’ve been. They’re vicious here. This is home to you?” she frowns. Bethany’s bright-eyed optimism verges too often on stupidity at times.
“It’s home to Mother.”
“Is that why she cries her eyes out every night?”
“Would it kill you to be optimistic, Sister?” Bethany is quiet for moments. “What have I done to make you angry? For over a year now you act as if you can’t bear my presence. We were always close and now... I feel as if it isn’t only Carver that I’ve lost. You make me feel so alone.”
Hawke hates nothing more than to hear sadness in Bethany’s voice. She guiltily turns away from it and to the wall. Her fingers clench around the thin sheet atop of her. “It’s nothing. I’m tired and I don’t feel like talking.”
“When will you feel like talking?”
“Go to sleep, Bethany.” Hawke doesn’t move. She moderates her breathing but doesn’t sleep. Bethany’s persistence and agitation makes her restless.
*
Bethany steps out of their room to see Hawke at their small dining table, rubbing at her forehead. Bethany wipes at her face, trying to wake up and walks to her, mussing her black hair, ignoring the annoyed swat from Hawke and kissing her cheek. “Morning, Sister.”
Hawke breaks off half of the hard roll of bread she’s eating and passes it to her wordlessly. Bethany takes it and settles in the seat opposite of her. There’s a small pitcher of water between them and Hawke pours her some in a poor wooden cup. She doesn’t look at her but Bethany looks at Hawke. The sun is hardly up but she looks as severe as ever and no sleepiness clings to her. Something about her is out of reach. Bethany has come to feel that way recently. She doesn’t know how to undo it, how to have her closer.
Shafts of golden light start to creep in through the windows. They hit Hawke, catching on her eyes and lips. Bethany wonders how she doesn’t squint against the brightness of the light; her lips do not thin in discomfort. No one has eyes like Hawke does. “If the men and women of Kirkwall could see you in this light, Marian, you would have a line around Kirkwall begging for your hand in marriage.” Hawke turns to her with quiet surprise. “You look comely.”
Hawke narrows her eyes gently before flicking them away and getting to her feet. “Hurry up and eat. You’ll need your energy and we have much to do today.”
Bethany bites into the hard piece of bread and covers her mouth discreetly. Is there nothing she can’t say wrong?
*
Fenris’ bronzed face has turned a ruddy complexion. His fingers sink into Hawke’s forearm that keeps him painfully and awkwardly pinned to the wall. Bethany can’t tell if Hawke feels his fingers or knows how red drops of blood form where he digs. Her blue eyes are merciless. Bethany touches Hawke’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Sister. I’m used to it by now.”
Hawke doesn’t look at her. Instead she presses her arm more cruelly against Fenris’ windpipe. “You hypocrite. Happy to have the assistance of an apostate when it’s convenient, only to turn around and run your mouth the moment you’ve gotten what you wanted. If I hear you say another word against my sister in either of our presence I will turn you over to that magister who was stupid enough to lose you. Are we clear?” Fenris gives faint acknowledgement. Hawke releases him. Bethany is astonished at how his freedom can look so violent. “Take your ignorance elsewhere, knife-ear.”
Fenris rubs at his neck and fights for breath. He says something rough to Hawke, something in a language that Bethany doesn’t understand before bowing his head demurely to Bethany and apologizing. He exits the Lowtown alley quickly. Hawke exhales and runs a hand agitatedly through her hair.
“You knew he didn’t like mages, Sister.”
“He also agreed to work with them. I’m tired of his constant bitching and moaning.” She looks sharply at Bethany. “And you, when will you find a backbone? Are you happy to let him and others like him slur our family name?”
Bethany crosses her arms and shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “I am an apostate. I can’t make that go away. Much as I may want to. He hasn’t turned me over to the templars. We can be grateful for that.” Hawke scowls with vexation. “What am I supposed to do, exactly? I can’t fight but with magic. That’s a good way to draw the attention of the templars. I’d like to stay out of their way if I can help it. You know what that would do to Mother.” Bethany knows she’s said the wrong thing again. Hawke looks at her as if she’s a contemptible idiot. Of course Hawke knows. Hawke has known as long as Bethany’s lived. Their mother has never been shy about expressing her worries. “I don’t mean to complain. I am grateful. If I had arms like you I might have done it myself.” But she doesn’t. She was raised to wield staffs, not great swords. She smiles. “The look on his face was priceless.”
“I wish I didn’t always have to defend you.”
Bethany doesn’t know what she means by that.
*
For the past hour Bethany has been collecting an eclectic assortment of flowers. This time in Hightown; earlier she’d pulled some from the Free Marches. Currently she’s on her knees, stretching her arm past the black iron grating of a Hightown mansion. Hawke keeps a lookout out of habit, despite her disapproval. Bethany is sensitive and prone to romanticism. Her olive skinned fingers wrap around a rose and she tugs, making a small sound of pain in the process. She stands, rose in hand, triumphant and shows it to Hawke who sighs. Bethany sticks it in the middle of the other dandelions and daisies, the sunflowers that she’d collected earlier. “Do you think Mother will like it?”
“I don’t think she’ll like that you’ve been stealing flowers from Hightown nobles.” Hawke looks around agitated.
“It will be a nice gesture,” Bethany protests. “She hasn’t had anything nice since we’ve arrived in Kirkwall. I don’t know about you but I can’t bear to see her unhappy.” Hawke pulls one of the thin red ribbons around her arm and wraps it around the bouquet of flowers in a zig zag. “That’s a nice touch,” Bethany says appreciatively, “looks like you have an eye for these things, no matter how you like to be a grouch. I’ll tell Mother they’re from both of us.” She winces and raises the hand that’d taken the rose. A crimson stream of blood runs along her palm and down her wrist.
“Idiot.” Hawke examines Bethany’s bleeding hand. The thorn from the rose has buried deep. Hawke lifts Bethany’s hand to her mouth and wipes the blood from her wrist and palm with her other hand. She feels Bethany’s pulse beneath her lips but she disregards that, much as she does Bethany’s small noise of surprise. Bethany’s hand is warm, her skin soft. Her breath quickens. Hawke narrows her eyes at the pointless knowledge and sucks gently until the thorn comes free. She pulls it carefully from her mouth, looks at it then throws it back in the garden where it came from. Her face is hot but the sky is cloudy and the weather moderate.
Bethany’s cheeks are red. “Thank you, Sister,” she says not looking at her.
Hawke wipes away the blood on her mouth with the back of her hand.
*
Bethany is nodding off on Hawke’s shoulder again. The difficulty with their stake outs for carta members is that they never know when they’re going to come out, if they come out at all. They’ve been waiting for hours now and Hawke’s fingers are verging on numb. Bethany resituates herself, wrapping an arm tightly around Hawke’s. Bethany is such a baby. She shifts closer to her, her fingers brushing over Hawke’s and warm breath, fogging in the air, heating Hawke’s neck as her lips hover too close. Hawke goes rigid.
She bites the tip of her tongue and dares a careful glance at her sleeping sister. Bethany’s face is rosy from the cold. Hawke hears the warehouse door bang open. This is what they’ve been waiting for hours on end. Bethany sighs softly, her eyebrows furrowing and grabbing tighter hold of Hawke’s arm.
Hawke knows that Bethany hasn’t been sleeping. She could wake her and they could take them out. Or she could leave Bethany by herself and run off into the cold night to fight them on her own. Truth told she doesn’t know how much coin they might get off them, maybe only some coppers or perhaps, if lucky, a few sovereigns. Maybe she should have brought the others.
Hawke deliberates until the carta members are gone, their opportunity missed. She exhales. Bethany’s body is warm against her. Hawke watches her. She doesn’t understand why the sight of her sister lately leaves her uncomfortable and breathless.
*
“You could stand to be nicer to your sister,” Leandra tells her as Bethany exits the home.
Hawke leans back into the dining chair, the balance tentative but Hawke doesn’t notice. She looks at the plate in front of her, near cleaned of food. She’d focused intensely on it during mealtime. Does she constantly need to coddle her sister? “Has she been complaining about me?”
“I see how she looks at you.”
How does she look at her?
Leandra takes the plate of food away from her, making sure to needle her with a dark look in the process. “She only wants some of your attention. You know how hard it’s been for her since … since Carver… the least you could do is look at her, talk to her. Give her some affection. I don’t understand you, Marian. Why can’t things be like they were before? Why can’t you be a better sister?”
Hawke stands abruptly from the chair, pounding the door on the way out. She does not want to hear about why things can’t be the way they were before, what a horrible sister she is or how she might stand to become a better one.
*
It’s mad but it feels best when it’s only the two of them out doing battle. It’s by no means safer—Bethany understands the danger it brings when their numbers are smaller but Hawke is closer then. Her latest taunts (at least that’s how it feels) of ignoring her are impractical. They have to work together to survive. Bethany remembers when they didn’t need danger to bridge them together.
With a flip and a wave of her staff she’s set three carta men on fire. Hawke rushes forward with a shout. The burning men in the darkness provide enough light for Bethany to see Hawke’s slender but chiseled arms swing the massive sword. Her muscles ripple with the impact of the sword slamming into the men. Their screams are indistinguishable than they were moments ago when they were first set on fire. Hawke’s determined expression doesn’t belie the result of battle: her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed attractively with excitement; she’s alive. The men they fight aren’t. They clutch at their stomachs as their insides fall out, then fall, jerking like a fish out of water.
Bethany has never known another woman to wield a sword like her sister does. There’s Aveline but she hardly counts. It isn’t the same thing. Does it require a certain ruthlessness? She can’t remember the last time Hawke smiled at her. “Nice job,” Hawke tells Bethany, slapping her arm heartily, leaving a bloody handprint. Hawke drops her hand, seemingly confused by the contact.
“You can touch me. There’s no rule against that.” Bethany doesn’t understand why Hawke’s eyebrows furrow as she looks away. “Anyway, you helped, didn’t you?”
“Let’s collect our reward and go back to Uncle Gamlen’s. There’s no sense in lingering here.”
And just like that it’s back to business again and Hawke is walking away. Shouldn’t it be the other way around: cold on the battlefield and warm away from it? Bethany doesn’t understand her older sister at all. What has she done to make Hawke hate her?
*
Bethany cries in her sleep.
The first time Hawke heard it she suspected it was her mother and had lain in bed for minutes in a fugue state, waiting for it to pass like it always inevitably did and Leandra cried herself to sleep or to the point of exhaustion. Hawke is used to that.
Bethany had begun crying after their arrival to Kirkwall as if finally allowed her time to breathe and contemplate. During the two weeks it took to arrive to Kirkwall in the hold of the ship, Bethany scarcely slept. Mostly she sat, numb. Hawke remembers that even if Bethany never speaks of it and focuses, instead, on their mother’s sadness and distress, on Hawke’s moods and how to better them.
Hawke remains on the top bunk. Sometimes Bethany stops. Minutes pass. She thinks to call out to her but doesn’t. She stares into the darkness—it’s too warm for a fire, and allows her eyes to adjust. She deliberates. Then she drops down to the bottom bunk. Bethany faces the wall, shaking. Hawke takes hold of Bethany’s shoulder and squeezes gently.
Bethany makes a small sound of complaint and sniffles, hugging her pillow further. Hawke leans in closer and whispers her name. Bethany stops moving. “Marian…?” Bethany turns on her back to look at her. Hawke remains close. Her fingers graze along Bethany’s face but don’t wipe the tears away as if not wanting Bethany to know that she’s seen them. “I was having a nightmare.”
“It’s all right now. It wasn’t real.”
Bethany ducks her head and covers her face with her hand. She takes shaky breaths and nods.
“The past is over and done with.” Hawke says. “We can’t do anything to change it. So move on.” She doesn’t want Bethany to become like their mother, a ghost of her former self, comprised only of survivor’s guilt and sorrow. Hawke knows how it will eat at you if you don’t keep it in check, if you keep pitying yourself. Bethany doesn’t speak of it. She does better than most. But she looks at Hawke now as if she’s been betrayed. Hawke waits for the accusation: that she is heartless and mean, incapable of pity.
“I can’t change the way I feel, Marian. I can’t change my dreams.”
“I know.” She’s startled when Bethany throws her arms around her. Hawke falls forward awkwardly and barely catches herself with a hand against the wall to keep from tumbling. Her other hand falls to Bethany’s back. They’re close enough to kiss. An unfamiliar anxiousness takes hold of Hawke. Why think that at all? Who cares how close they are?
“Please don’t ever go anywhere.”
Hawke wishes that Bethany weren’t so sentimental. She can’t help but to memorize the softness of Bethany’s body pressed to hers. Bethany smells of flowers. “I won’t,” she manages. She smoothes the hair back from Bethany’s face, dazed by her younger sister’s beauty. Bethany covers Hawke’s fingers with her own, lightly curling around them. Their eyes meet as they breathe in synchronicity. Hawke disentangles herself from her. “Don’t worry so much,” she faces the dead fireplace because she can’t face her. She is wrought by the desire that scorches her, desire that should never be caused by a younger sister. Something is wrong with her. She doesn’t know how to properly care for people. She’s getting things mixed up in her head. “Goodnight,” she pulls herself back up to her bunk and lays there.
She hasn’t had a lover in some time. Clearly her body longs for one. She’ll go to the Blooming Rose and get it taken care of once and for all. Bethany has experienced enough. She doesn’t need her older sister’s perversions to contend with. No, Hawke tells herself. They aren’t perversions. A stray thought doesn’t mean anything. She’ll forget this happened. She’ll forget that thought.
*
It is only when they’re finished and her lust somewhat sated that Hawke sees the resemblance between the Blooming Rose whore and Bethany. The shape of her eyebrows, the color of her eyes, the fullness of her lips and the curiously innocent expression are some of the traits they share. She isn’t as attractive as Bethany and her voice is different, haughty and servile, teasing and leering: she is everything that Bethany is not and therefore inferior.
But noting the obvious physical resemblance stirs Hawke again. With some reluctance and great shame, she pays for another hour between the two of them. The obscenities the whore speaks into Hawke’s ears make the difference between Bethany and the woman clearer. Hawke cannot decide if this is how she would prefer it. She can’t imagine Bethany saying those things… What would it be like to hear Bethany saying those things…?
This isn’t what she wants. How could it be? How did this happen? Did she unknowingly choose her because of her resemblance to Bethany? Even if she hadn’t—what of afterward when she knew without a doubt? The cyclical questions torment her.
*
“There’s a new pretty young thing that looks so much like you at the Blooming Rose.” Isabela tells her. Bethany looks up from her pint of beer. Her cheeks were flushed from the beer but now they go redder still. “If you’re curious,” Isabela continues, “I haven’t taken her to bed. Why settle for less when you can have the real thing?”
Bethany smiles nervously as Isabela sets a hand on her knee and leans in close. “Oh. That’s. Um....” She clears her throat. She isn’t sure that she wanted to know that there is a sex worker who bears a strong resemblance to her. She glances down at Isabela’s hand and then up to her face. “Is she very popular?”
“She must be with a face like that.” Isabela pushes back a few dark strands of Bethany’s hair away from her face. “You’re much prettier.” Bethany gulps and has a hurried drink of her beer. She never knows what to do with Isabela’s flirtations. She has no censor. Bethany can’t say that she doesn’t like the attention. It’s nice to be thought of in that way. Or is it? “Anyway,” Isabela drops her hand away from Bethany’s knee, deciding the neglected beer in front of her is far more important, “I only thought of it because it looks like the Blooming Rose is starting to become the favorite family hangout, what with your look alike, Gamlen and that older sister of yours.”
“What?” Bethany stops mid-drink. “Marian? That can’t be.”
“Oh, look at how cute you are. Yes, ‘Marian’ or Hawke. One and the same. Sorry, didn’t know I was letting the cat out of the bag. And your sister is a cat. Not a fun, lovable thing like you.” She takes hold of Bethany’s chin who gapes briefly and then looks away.
“Who does she… spend time with?”
“Can’t say that I know. I’d have to check the books and I don’t care enough to. You could always ask.”
Bethany has never seen anyone at the Blooming Rose that might catch her eye. Then again, who’s to say what Hawke goes for? They used to talk about these kinds of things but not anymore. It doesn’t make sense. Hawke could have anyone. Why there? More than that, aren’t they trying to save coin for the Deep Roads? “None of this makes sense.”
“That’s life, Sweetness. If it made sense, it would be boring.”
*
Hawke comes home late. Bethany hears the front door shutting and Hawke’s fond words for their pet mabari before another door closes. Bethany waits and listens to the bath water run. It’s soothing and she drifts away thinking of what she’ll say to her sister when she returns to the room.
When the door creaks open an undeterminable time later, Bethany rolls on her side. She watches Hawke walk through the room, throw her towel over the chair and change into her thin night shift. Hawke’s body is thinner than it used to be but is no less for it. She is both leaner and more athletic than before. Hawke stops suddenly, back to her, in the midst of pulling the shift over her head, the fabric coiled around her shoulders. Bethany stares at her naked body and then down at the barely there mattress beneath her.
“What is it?” Hawke asks, pulling the shift further down and over her surprisingly shapely hips, much to Bethany’s relief. Not that it helps much. It isn’t much longer than what Isabela usually wears. “Why are you awake?” she adds bitterly, running a hand back through her hair.
Bethany wonders if Hawke knows how beautiful she is. If she did, would she waste her time at a whore house? What do people think and experience when they touch Hawke? Is she kinder then? Does she smile? “I was waiting for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Where were you?” Bethany adds quickly: “If you were out on a job you should have taken me.”
“I wasn’t.” She sits on the decrepit desk beside the bed, crossing one leg over another. Bethany catches a flash of her thigh and fidgets where she lies before sitting up. Isabela’s constant sex talk is sexualizing Bethany’s thoughts. She feels guilty. Maybe she needs to go to the Blooming Rose. Or return Isabela’s flirtations. “Is there a reason for this inquisition, Bethany?”
“‘Bela told me you’ve been going to the red light district. To the Blooming Rose,” Bethany stammers. Hawke purses her lips before her jaw hardens. “I didn’t believe her. Until now.”
“It isn’t your business.”
“Why go there? You, of all people. You’ve other options.”
“This matter is not up for discussion.”
“Why not? We used to talk about everything.” Yes, before they’d fled Lothering. Bethany wonders if Hawke blames her for Carver’s death, or worse yet, wishes it had been him who had survived and not her. Does Hawke think thoughts like that? She would never have thought so before. Lately she isn’t sure. “It’s going to be hard to save coin if you keep going there. Is there…someone there that you like?”
“No.” then: “Will you shut up already?”
Bethany frowns. “Why do you have to be so mean? I wasn’t going to tell Mother. You help gather the coin—you’re entitled to—to…. Take care of… whatever it is you need to take care of.” Why did she have to tell her to shut up? Hawke looks crosser by the moment. Bethany swings her legs to the side of the bed and stands while Hawke glances at her uncertainly. Bethany wonders if she’s made her feel ashamed. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Bethany smiles faintly. She stands behind Hawke, resting her chin on her shoulder and wrapping her arms around her. Her arms hang lowly in front of Hawke who has tensed. “‘Bela told me there’s a girl there that looks like me. Wouldn’t Mother be scandalized?”
“Why should she be? It isn’t you.”
“You spoilsport.” Bethany pinches her cheek gently. Hawke slaps her hand away. “You’ve seen her, then?” Hawke is unresponsive. Bethany closes her eyes and leans into her. “If Mother knew about her I can just see her grabbing her by the ear and dragging her out. She’d ask where her mother was and tell her how our bodies are gifts to be cherished and respected.”
Hawke smirks. “It sounds like you’ve got Mother down pat.”
“I can’t imagine what she might be like. I suppose it is exciting that there’s another me—no doubt leading a more thrilling life.”
Hawke touches Bethany’s arm. “That woman isn’t you.”
“I should hope not. Unless I’ve been living a mysterious double life. Pretending to be one thing during the day and moonlighting as someone else at night.” She laughs softly and opens her eyes. Hawke looks at her. Their faces are close. Hawke’s lips are the color of ripe-red apples. Her eyes are easy to get lost in. Why does she want to kiss her sister…? Why does it look as if Hawke wants her to? Hawke who hasn’t looked at her for more than a few seconds at a time in months looks at her intensely now. Hawke grips Bethany’s arm as if to keep her close.
Bethany tries to rein in her thoughts. She’s reading too much into everything. She can’t even remember what it is that she’d been saying. This is as close as anyone who wants a kiss will get. That’s what’s confusing her. Or maybe it’s only because Hawke is looking at her at long last. Bethany lets her go and starts to pull away. Hawke still holds Bethany’s arm. They both notice. Hawke releases her abruptly. Bethany returns to the bottom bunk. “What’s sex like?” she asks.
“It’s good. If you do it right.” Hawke focuses on the desk in front of her.
She remembers Isabela saying something like that. She wonders how people can do it wrong. Will she do it wrong? “It must be if people pay for it.” Though she can’t imagine ever paying for a thing like that. Maybe she’s romantic. She’d like for it to be special.
“That’s simplifying things too much.”
Bethany leans back into the wall and pulls her legs to her chest. “Why do you do it?”
“It feels good.” She cuts Bethany off before she can ask again. “Sometimes you have to pay for what you want. Sometimes that’s the only way you will get it.”
“You can get anything you want, Marian. You don’t have to pay for it. Or steal it,” she adds before Hawke can think to interrupt. “Isabela wants to take me to bed. Should I let her?” Her heart pitter patters asking the question. She looks at Hawke but can’t see her face. Hawke rubs at her forehead. “What is it?” Bethany asks quietly.
“I’m tired. That’s all.” She says softly. Bethany pulls the blanket over her legs. Hawke is contemplative for minutes before she goes to the bed and touches a hand to the ladder. She is silent for a time. “Bethy.” Bethany looks up at Hawke. The fireplace outlines her in gold. “You should never do what doesn’t feel right. No matter how another person may push you to or how you may want it.”
Bethany smiles. “Sisterly advice? Why, Marian. You do care.” Hawke climbs up to the top bunk without responding. Bethany remains against the wall still happy that Hawke has deigned to speak to her. Hawke has no idea how Bethany has missed her. “Don’t worry, Sister. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t push your luck.” Minutes later, when Bethany has lain down and turned on her side, thinking of the other her at the Blooming Rose, Hawke speaks again. “I was wrong to go to the Rose, Bethany. I won’t do it again.”
“You don’t need my permission.”
“I wouldn’t ask for it.”
And there she is again, being difficult. They never used to bicker. They were always close and friendly, joking. Bethany remembers running to her and not their mother when something was the matter and how Hawke would kiss away her tears and tell her a joke, righting whatever wrong with either words or bandaging. Now her sister, the great hero and shining example, visits whores. “Why did you do it? Was it really what you said?” Is she lonely?
“Bethany. I want you.”
Bethany sits up. She looks foolishly to the bunk above her wanting answers. Marian’s words are mournful. Bethany wants only to see her face. Is it a joke? Her heart pounds. She doesn’t know how she feels. “What?” she asks breathlessly.
“Go to sleep.”