This, Holly thought to herself, had to be the mother of all awkward silences. She thought of all the ways that fate could have worked out in which this wouldn't be happening. If she hadn't had to pee at right that very moment, and if she'd been directed to a different john, and if Butler hadn't just happened to be in this particular one (How many bathrooms did Fowl Manor have anyway, and didn't the bodyguard get his own suite? Why was he tying up bathrooms meant for the general populace?), and if he'd bothered to lock the door or even close it all the way, hell, if you went way back, if Artemis had kidnapped a different fairy, if she'd managed to mind-wipe the humans after that whole imbroglio, if Butler had been killed by that troll, if her healings of him hadn't worked, if someone else had been sent to check out that mysterious phone call. . .

What were the odds that it would all happen? But it had, astoundingly enough. It had, and now Holly was stuck here staring at a gargantuan human sans shirt in one of six bathrooms on the ground floor of Fowl Manor, and fighting the pangs of nostalgia and sadness and anger and pity and the urge to run to him, to make everything the way it was before. And now she probably had to say something, because she had walked in on him. And probably "Oh, sorry, I'll just be leaving now," wasn't going to cut the proverbial mustard.

With the placid consistency that marked his every action, Butler stared back at her, waiting. Waiting for her to say something, and there she was with nothing to say. D'arvit. A sudden, unexpected encounter with an old flame, and nothing to say at all, much less something cool and sophisticated and witty and utterly fine without him. You, Captain Short, are a loser, she told herself, and as soon as you get home you are going to compose a list of cool and sophisticated and witty remarks for these sorts of occasions. But for the short term--

"I'm--I'm sorry," she managed to eke out.

"Thank you," he replied, in rather clipped tones.

"You're welcome."

"I thought you were sorry."

"I am," she said, perching on the marble vanity.

Butler tipped his head to the side, and arched one eyebrow. Despite the emotions already churning within her, Holly felt a twinge of irritation. "I thought you were grateful," she retorted.

"I am."

"All right then," she said around gritted teeth.

There was a pause in the repartee, and briefly--but only briefly--Holly considered opening up to him, telling him she still loved him, making everything right between them. This consideration was quickly squelched by her dignity. Let him be the one to crack first, she thought bitterly. Not that he'd ever crack.