"I'm not sure where it is you wish to go with this," Cecelia says, a touch weary. "I do not know what words you wish to hear, either. I can only tell you what I find certain, as I'm sure you're doing so."

Pity, that: Nothing feels more frustrating than talking to something of a brick wall of unease. For as far as she's come, Cecelia feels weirdly vindicated of her failure here; it always felt strange how others found her so comforting. It must've been something practiced, because it certainly isn't coming naturally to her.

"And before you dare try," she cuts in, holding up a finger, "don't apologize for it."