The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 10:00 CET

"And then you just add the flour slowly, bit by—" Clarke bites off the rest of her instructions as Lexa tilts the bowl and the entirety of the dry ingredients falls into the creamed butter. A large white cloud sprays back into the queen's face and she coughs, stepping away from the long kitchen island.

Clarke laughs and dusts the powder off of the queen's nose with her index finger. Lexa holds her breath, visibly annoyed, but Clarke just shakes her head with a smile, "I did say 'slowly.'"

The queen glares at Clarke, but it only causes the blonde to smile harder. Clarke brushes off the last of the flour and then turns to the batter, holding her hands out in demonstration. "This is why we wear an apron. Or else all the flour would be on your Versace." Clarke winks and then continues even as Lexa rolls her eyes, "Just stir the wet and dry ingredients together like so. There's no real science to this part. And once the dough is homogeneous we'll want to chill it for thirty minutes before we cut out the shapes."

Lexa bats Clarke's hand out of the way and takes over stirring. Her tone is only mildly frustrated when she reminds the blonde, "We do have a stand mixer you know."

"But it's fun to do it by hand! And it feels more rewarding…"

The queen arches her eyebrows at Clarke but continues to stir without further comment. When the dough looks like a golden ball, Clarke instructs Lexa to wrap it in cellophane and pop it in the fridge.

"Now what?" Lexa places her flour-covered hands on her hips, unaware that she's leaving white handprints, and glances around the empty kitchen. Clarke smiles and pulls out a larger ball of cellophane-wrapped dough from one of the many refrigerators.

"I made this one earlier so we could just go ahead—"

Lexa's mouth falls open, "You already made cookie dough?"

"Yes, I just—"

"Then why did we make more?"

"It's fun!"

Lexa gives her deadpan expression, "So when I finish cutting this dough into shapes are you going to magically produce some already baked cookies?"

"No…" Clarke bites her lips, slowly shaking her head.

"Eliza," Lexa says sternly.

"I— I just like to be prepared!"

"I can see that! Now, where are the cookies?"

Clarke slinks over to the cabinet and pulls out a large platter of perfectly frosted gingerbread men and women. She sets the plate in front of Lexa, wincing at the queen's affronted expression.

"You didn't really need my help at all!"

"No," Clarke admits slowly, stepping closer to the monarch. "But I wanted it."

"Not enough to wait for me," Lexa crosses her arms.

"But now we get to eat them while we bake! Here, try one!"

Lexa opens her mouth, no doubt to argue further, but Clarke quickly stuffs a cookie in and waits nervously as the queen chews.

"Delicious," Lexa whisper dangerously.

"You like them?" Clarke's voice pitches higher as Lexa's gaze narrows. "Here, have more. You just sit there and I'll finish the next batch."

"Oh no," the queen's voice is low and deadly. "You're going to show me exactly how to make these. Every step."

"Really?" Clarke's heart jumps. And a smile spreads across her face. "Okay, well we can start by rolling this dough out on a floured surface…"

She demonstrates what she means with a wooden dowel, pausing as Lexa steps closer. So close that Clarke can feel the heat of the queen against her back. Her cheeks flush slightly, but the blonde continues. "We want the dough to be about half a centimeter—"

"Like this?" Lexa's arms bracket her own, hands gripping the rolling pin over Clarke's and pushing the two of them closer to the workbench than is strictly necessary for rolling out the dough.

"Mmhmm," Clarke nods, clearing her throat. She tries to focus on the task, but the dough ends up a little too thin in some places and too thick in others. Lexa continues to do her best to distract Clarke as they cut out the shapes; the queen invades the baker's space and pretends to need Clarke's help to press the cookie cutters into the dough. But the real challenge comes later when the baked cookies have cooled and Clarke attempts to frost the gingerbread in the same intricate way as before. Lexa leans over, asking questions in Clarke's ear and causing the blonde's hand to slip until she has created abominations rather than people out of royal icing. Finally, Clarke is so flustered that she spins around and orders Lexa to leave the kitchen.

"Look! Look at this horror show! Ugh! Go wrap the presents. Do something other than pester me!"

Lexa just chuckles and throws off her apron. She slides her hands into the pockets of her trousers before looking at Clarke innocently and asking, "Are you sure I can't help—"

"Out!" Clarke huffs, pointing at the door. The queen smiles wryly before strolling from the kitchen, whistling faintly as she leaves.

Clarke curses heatedly and then turns back to the mess of cookies, uncomfortably aroused which was no doubt Lexa's devious intent. The blonde breathes through her nose and pretends this is the competition. That there are stakes so her mind will focus on decorating instead of Lexa's strong arms. It works. More or less.

An hour later, Clarke strides into the queen's office with a fresh platter of cookies. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting to the side as she takes in the sight before her. The entire office is covered in presents, some wrapped, most not, and the desk is piled so high that only a small window in the gifts reveals the queen on the other side.

Lexa's head is bent, lip pinched in concentration as she fiddles with the red wrapping paper around a plastic tiara. Clarke smiles and crosses the cluttered floor.

"Need some help?"

The queen's green eyes dart up and narrow, "I'm perfectly fine."

"Then have another cookie."

Lexa quirks one brow up before reaching forward to snag a gingerbread from the tray. "I'm already stuffed, but I can't seem to refuse. How did a duchess learn to bake so well?"

"My mother," Clarke smiles, eyes bright.

"The Grand Duchess baked? Didn't she die when you were quite young?"

Clarke nods, breath hitching. That's the second time today she's forgotten to play her part, to play Eliza. And even though it's flowed naturally for the last day, Clarke has to focus on the Arkadian accent to force out the next words, "She did, but I remember her baking and it inspired me to learn." It feels strange, unnatural to be lying to Lexa. It feels wrong. But Clarke doesn't get much time to consider it because Lexa carries on, oblivious.

"You must miss her very much."

"As you miss your parents, no doubt."At least that's not a lie.

"This time of year always reminds me of them," Lexa leans back in her chair. "The odor of pine needles inside and the smell of turkey roasting. I used to associate it with the holidays, with my parents having time away from work and my cousins coming to play." Lexa shakes her head and stands resolutely, "But that was a long time ago." Clarke frowns, watching as the queen straightens her jacket and steps around her desk to grab another naked toy — a wooden sword. The object reminds Clarke of the joyful expression it had inspired on the queen's face the day before.

"You know," Clarke steps forward to lean against Lexa's desk as the brunette sits down again. "It's still okay to play sometimes."

Lexa glances up at Clarke wistfully, "I'm not so sure."

"Oh? What about earlier?"

The queen smirks, "If you thought that was for fun then you have another thing coming on our wedding night."

Clarke chokes on air, face flushing brightly. "Excuse me?"

"I think you heard me, Eliza."

Clarke swallows and looks down. She tells herself not to feel it — the nauseating emotion which has begun to erode her stomach like acid any time Lexa utters Eliza's name. Acknowledging it is hopeless. Clarke knows that. Whatever feelings are there, whatever has grown between them isn't real. How can it be? Lexa doesn't know the truth. So it is all a lie. The warmth that Clarke feels when those green eyes stare at her. A lie. The fluttering in her stomach when Lexa smiles in that soft, genuine way which feels reserved only for Clarke. Another blatant lie. And all of these insidious, tender emotions will have to be crushed, squashed with a heavy fist. But… not today, Clarke comforts herself. Today she'll let them exist, let them live in the light. Just for today. For the hours she has before midnight when Eliza and her will finally switch back.

So she looks up at Lexa and smiles, before saying daringly, "Challenge accepted."

"I don't think you know what you're agreeing to."

"And I think you are underestimating me. A dangerous habit of yours."

"One you'll have to rectify."

"Oh, I intend to, your majesty."

Lexa grins wickedly before turning back to the task in front of her. Clarke twists her head to watch the queen wrap the toy sword in gold paper and lets out an amused snort at the truly valiant, if not highly messy, effort.

Rolling her eyes, Clarke turns around, "You better let me help you with that."

"Am I interrupting?"

Clarke looks up as Lexa's spine straightens and the queen's smile dissolves into that regal mask. A man in his late fifties stands in the doorway, brown hair graying at his temples and an impeccable navy suit adorning his person. He looks rather severe, but his expression is one of amusement and the effect is completely unnerving.

"Your grace," Lexa stands, inclining her head.

The man bows low, "Your majesty." He straightens and his gaze comes to rest upon Clarke. When she makes no move or formal address, his eyebrows rise. "Is this how you greet your father? Polis seems to have roughened you around the edges, Eliza."

Clarke's eyes widen and she can feel her heartbeat expand into her throat. Father? Eliza's father. The blonde coughs slightly and shifts around the desk. She halts before the man, unsure of what greeting would be appropriate. Finally, she rises awkwardly onto her toes and kisses him briefly on both cheeks before murmuring, "Father."

He gives her a strange, perplexed look before his gaze turns to survey the queen's office. "What is this? An explosion at a toy factory?"

Clarke blushes, "No… actually Lexa— I mean, her majesty and I are sponsoring a local charity and we thought it would be fun to… well, to wrap the presents ourselves! Get our hands dirty so to speak."

"How very bourgeois of you, my dear."

"Your daughter has been starting quite the revolution," Lexa says cooly. Clarke twists around to glance at the queen, but the man's rough laughter stops her.

"Not too much trouble I hope?" he asks amiably.

Clarke stiffens. Before Lexa can respond to his question, the blonde smiles, "Cookie?"

Again the Grand Duke looks both amused and curious as Clarke lifts the tray from the queen's desk and presents him with an array of gingerbread men and women. He takes the closest and starts with its arms. His brows lift and then furrow as he chews. Some emotion sweeps over his face, but it passes too quickly for Clarke to read.

"Do you like them?"

His voice is lower, more serious when he says, "They remind me of your mother."

Surprise bubbles up within Clarke. Eliza hadn't ever mentioned her mother baking. But before Clarke can think too much on the coincidence, the Grand Duke claps his hands together.

"Well, I had better leave you two to your wrapping."

"Do you…" Clarke pauses, unsure if she should finish the question. But there is little point stopping now. "Would you like to join us, father? We could use the help."

The man gives her another strange look.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "It's just… you haven't called me 'father' since you were in high school."

"You are my father," Clarke says uncomfortably, laughing slightly. "What else would I call you?"

"Marcus," he states, then raises his hands. "But no matter. I find I much prefer when you call me father. In fact, I would not be opposed if you wished to call me 'dad' again."

"Alright, dad… Would you like to join us?"

He glances between Clarke and the queen. "No, I think I better not. Jetlag and all that, you know?" He explains before giving another bow and breezing out of the room. Clarke stares after him, feeling a bit jet-lagged herself.

The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 17:30 CET

"One more!" Clarke calls as she and Lexa exit the castle followed closely by a brigade of staff carrying presents and cookies to the limo.

Murphy raises his brows as the last of the load is placed in the trunk. "I think you've bought the children presents for two Christmases."

Lexa points at a lumpy present and says proudly as if comparing size, "I wrapped that one."

"Really?" Murphy's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "Extraordinary, your majesty."

"Part of giving a gift is wrapping it, Murphy," Clarke remarks dryly, coming to stand beside Lexa.

The man nods, "Yes, I can tell you wrapped a fair few of these."

Raven glowers at him from the other side of the car, "Where is your holiday spirit, huh?"

"It died after the third time I was forced to listen to 'Santa Baby' in the grocery store."

"Grinch."

"Does that make you Max?"

Raven snorts, "I think we both know who is Max in our… association."

Clarke bites back a smile and Lexa clears her throat.

"After you, your majesty," Murphy bows with a flourish.

The car ride to the shelter is quiet and Clarke enjoys the simple pleasure of just being in Lexa's company. They don't have to say any words. Clarke rests her head against Lexa's shoulder and when her mind tries to bring up the deadline, the finite quality of their time together, she closes her eyes and listens to the sound of the queen's steady heart.

But even though the space between those beats slows the longer Clarke concentrates on the sound, she cannot seem to make Time function similarly. It slips between her fingers like fine grains of sand until they are at the shelter and surrounded by the children.

St. Andrews appears far cheerier than it did the day before. A large, very real Christmas tree stands in the corner of the main hall with red and gold ornaments decorating its surface. Countless strands of popcorn and cranberries wrap around the tree, no doubt made by the children this morning. Presents overflow from the base of the pine and it's a communal effort to keep the kids from opening them until the adults have properly imbibed plenty of brandy and eggnog.

Clarke's head buzzes pleasantly and a smile is plastered to her face as the children rip open what took hours to wrap. Squeals and giggles of delight follow each torn wrapping until the floor is strewn in pieces of decorative paper. She watches as Lexa pulls aside the little boy named Aden and presents him with a special gift wrapped in gold paper. His smile spreads from ear to ear as he unwraps the wooden sword from the toy shop.

"Use it well," Lexa winks at the kid and ruffles his hair before coming back to stand next to Clarke.

"Favoritism? Really?"

Lexa laces her fingers through Clarke's left hand, before whispering, "Do you really want me to stop?"

"No."

The queen chuckles and pulls Clarke across the room and down onto the piano stool with her.

"What are you doing?" The pleasant buzz around Clarke's mind shatters.

"Relax," Lexa ties her hair back. "All you have to do is turn the pages for me."

"Oh," Clarke exhales a short laugh. "I can do that."

The matron, children, and staff gather around the instrument as Lexa stretches her fingers along the keys, hitting an opening chord. Then, as easy as breathing, the queen begins to play 'Silver Bells.' Clarke's mouth drops open as Lexa starts to sing and a raspy, alto melody pours out of her. The rest of the crowd joins, but Clarke only has eyes for the queen. Her focus remains on Lexa, on the lightness which sweeps over her stoic person. It paints such a different picture to the woman who Clarke met the first night that the blonde's eyes start to well. She blinks away the moisture and twists, focusing on turning the page and singing along with everyone as they move from carol to carol.

When they've exhausted the well-known songs and perspiration dots Lexa's brow, the singing comes to a close. Lexa stands, straightening her emerald velvet jumpsuit, and then turns to give Clarke a hand.

The matron circles closer to the couple and murmurs quietly, "I don't know how to thank you enough. The children are ecstatic and the changes you've made to the budgeting are going to help so much."

Clarke twists to look at Lexa, eyes wide. "Did you—"

"Yes," the queen smiles softly before addressing the matron. "We are happy to give you more autonomy over the money. It is a donation after all. And who knows the needs of this organization better than you? Truly, we are excited to help."

"It's an extremely generous gesture, your majesty."

Lexa's brows furrow. "I'd like to do better than a gesture. In fact," she continues, her voice rising to gain control of the room. "The duchess and I are moved by the wonderful work you do here. And we don't want to simply sit on the sidelines. We want to participate. Be of service. So I'd like to make this a tradition. I'd like to have monthly visits so we can get to know you all and learn how best to help."

Clarke's breath catches in her throat as she watches Lexa command the room, as the queen's voice rings out and her words find a home in Clarke's heart. And when Lexa glances back at the blonde, the monarch finds tears in her blue eyes. But it's a sweet sadness. Because it's everything Clarke wants for the children, for Lexa, for this place…. even if Clarke won't be a part of it herself. Even then, she tries to remind herself as Lexa pulls her closer, even then it will have been worth it.

A familiar tinkling sound fills the air as the crowd taps their glasses. High overhead a little branch of mistletoe hangs and Clarke cannot stop the hiccuping laugh which escapes her throat at the irony.

"Again?" Raven sighs to her right, but the brunette smiles kindly.

Clarke's eyes travel back to Lexa, to the incredible, strong, beautiful woman before her. The woman she has fallen for without ever meaning to. While she thought her heart still ached for someone else. How funny to realize that heart was in her chest all along at the precise moment she accepts that it no longer belongs to her.

"I love you," Clarke whispers, only loud enough for Lexa to hear. She holds that brilliant brilliant gaze with her own and slides her hands behind the queen's neck, pulling Lexa down to her. And Clarke smiles against Lexa's mouth, smiles as the queen's hands wrap around her waist, dragging Clarke against her. And even though they are surrounded by fifty people, Clarke doesn't blush. Because there is no embarrassment or fear or hesitancy in her mind. Not while she is in Lexa's arms. Not while they are together. Clarke's heart beats steadily when they pull apart and the cheer of the crowd rises up to meet them. Lexa grins and Clarke smiles back softly, letting her hands slide into the queen's.

A muttered oath draws the focus of the room. The crowd looks towards the far wall where a brooding Murphy stands, face tense and annoyed. Aden cries 'en garde' pointing his wooden sword at the cornered man. The young boy lightly wacks Murphy on one thigh and then the other, causing the man's face to grow even more pinched.

"Oh, dear! I'd better stop that," the matron shakes her head, making for the pair.

"It's fine," Lexa chuckles. "He's only dreaming of defending his country."

"I—" the matron stops, scandalized.

"Best to use diplomacy on this one," Clarke appeases the woman, winking at Lexa who merely shrugs. But intervention proves unnecessary as Aden and a very unamused Murphy appear moments later, the latter directing the former firmly by the shoulders.

"Young sir requests to play Twister," Murphy drawls out. "And I said that your majesty and your grace were well acquainted with the game."

Lexa raises her eyebrows, "Did you?" She turns to Aden, clapping her hands together. "Twister is one of my favorite games."

"Mine too!"

"Wonderful. Lead the way," Lexa gestures forward and begins to walk after the kid, adding over her shoulder. "C'mon, Murphy."

"What? But, your majesty, Twister," he sneers the word, "is not in my job description."

Raven snorts, "It is now."

Clarke smiles, her heart full as she watches Murphy and Raven trail after the queen. She follows them shortly. Just after she's had a moment to breathe. After she decides to put aside the sadness and simply enjoy now.

Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 20:30 CET

"Bye, Mom!" Eliza waves from the porch, watching as Abby slides into the cab bound for her hotel. The woman turns right before shutting the door and smiles. But there is something different about that smile and there has been all day. The expression doesn't quite reach the older woman's eyes which remain keen and sharp as if she is watching Eliza. Still, Abby has not said anything. She has laughed at Bellamy's jokes and teased 'Clarke' about the two of them and spoiled Madi since ten o'clock this morning. Maybe Eliza is reading too much into it. Maybe she is projecting her own strange fascination with Abby onto the older woman.

Eliza presses the door shut gently and then stretches her hands overhead, sighing. She strides over to the kitchen and joins Bellamy at the sink to wash up from dinner. Her shoulder brushes up against his as she rinses everything he has already scrubbed down.

"That was the best Sinigang I've ever eaten," Eliza states confidently. Bellamy rolls his eyes, but his cheeks flush slightly from the compliment and Eliza finds the contradiction completely endearing.

"I make it for you every year, Clarke."

Eliza shrugs, "It's still amazing. How did you learn to cook like that?"

"My dad, actually," Bellamy admits, the words feeling weighted. Clarke had mentioned this. How Bellamy's parents had died when he was in high school. After a tumultuous separation that left both barely fit to care for their children. Eliza swallows as Bellamy continues, "Any time Octavia and I were allowed to visit him, we spent the whole weekend cooking Filipino food. It was actually a lot of fun. " He frowns and shakes his head with a frustrated sigh, "I still miss him. God, I hate that! It feels like I'm betraying my mom even thinking it."

"He was still your father," Eliza looks over at him, pressing her shoulder more fully against his. "It's okay to miss him."

Bellamy nods, jaw tight. He scrubs a few more plates before he says in a rough voice. "He's still alive, you know… I—I haven't told anyone that."

"What?" Eliza breathes in, stomach clenching.

"Yeah, I saw him. Two years ago. On a bus. I was standing on the street corner and he was looking out of the window. We made eye contact, but I… I don't even think he recognized me."

"Bellamy—"

"It's fine," he says gruffly, blinking, "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

Eliza reaches her hand over into the other side of the sink to grab his soapy one. "You don't have to cook this if makes you unhappy. Not for me. Not for anyone."

"I like how happy it makes you," he smiles down at their hands, his large fingers sliding through hers.

She swallows and admits quietly, "Seeing you happy makes me happy."

"Really?"

"Yeah, crazy how that works right?"

Bellamy laughs, the tension easing from his chest. "It actually feels really good to cook this food. Like I'm rewriting history or something."

"Have you ever thought about opening your own restaurant in Chicago?"

He looks taken aback. "Would you be okay with that?"

"It's your life, Bellamy."

"But what about The Dropship?"

"I think the world will be just fine if you don't put all of it on your shoulders," Eliza murmurs, squeezing his fingers, "and I think you might be a bit happier."

Bellamy turns his body to face her and his expression is excruciatingly indefinable as he holds her gaze.

"What?"

He frowns, "I just… You're so—"

"Heyo!" Madi shouts, sliding into the kitchen on her reindeer socks. "Are we going out tonight? We could get hot chocolate and see the Christmas tree all lit up in the square again and—"

"Wow, wow, slow down squirt. You've already had way too much hot cocoa today and it's past your bedtime." Bellamy looks pointedly at his daughter, "The only place you're going is up to the bathroom to brush your teeth."

Madi puts her hands on her hips, glaring up at her father. "The only place? Does that mean I'm sleeping in the bathtub?"

"Obviously I meant—"

"Ha! You lose, I win. Let's go into town!"

"Madigan Aurora Blake. Bed. Now."

Madi sticks out her tongue, but when Bellamy doesn't budge she sighs heavily, "Fine, but I want Clarke to tuck me in."

Eliza smiles, drying off her hands before glancing at Bellamy. "Our liege has commanded and I must obey. I'll be right back."

"Hey!" Bellamy protests as the two girls head upstairs. "I cooked. You're supposed to clean!"

"I'll think of some way to repay you," Eliza says without thinking and then twists, letting out a laugh at his shocked expression. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"I guess we'll see."

Madi makes a gagging sound and pulls on Eliza's hand until they're safely locked within the little girl's bedroom. The child raises an imperious set of eyebrows at the duchess and then points to her dresser, "The royal pajamas, please."

"Yes, your majesty," Eliza curtsies.

The blonde helps Madi wiggle into her onesie and then brushes her own teeth alongside the kid so that Madi doesn't have an excuse to skip the pre-bed routine. Eliza takes a running start from the bathroom, leaping across the hall to flop down onto the kid's bed with Madi giggling just behind her. It's only when the child is finally tucked beneath the comforter and Eliza has finished reading a chapter out of Percy Jackson that Madi's expression turns serious. She grabs Eliza's hand as the blonde rises to leave.

"Wait!"

Eliza sits down once more. "What is it?"

"You're leaving tonight, aren't you?"

The duchess nods and her heart sinks as she takes in the child's wounded expression.

"Were you even going to say goodbye?"

"I'm not very good with those sorts of things."

Madi scowls then replies smartly, "I thought you said we should always try new things."

"Ahh, so I did," Eliza concedes. She pauses, trying to find the right words, but it only becomes harder with every passing second. "I… I don't even know how to begin."

"Then don't leave."

Warmth seeps into Eliza at the determination on the young girl's face. But the feeling is quickly tinged by the knowledge of what she must do. Eliza exhales, admitting, "I don't have a choice, Madi."

"Why?"

"Because it's my duty."

"Which means you have to do things… even if you don't like them?" Madi asks, frowning.

"Something like that."

"But that's not fair!" the child pouts.

"No," the duchess smiles wanly. "I suppose it's not."

"I want you to stay. You have to stay."

Eliza's throat begins to burn, tightening like Madi's grip on her hand. "You'll be fine. You'll have Clarke and you know how much she loves you—"

"But I want you to stay."

Eliza inhales sharply. I want you to stay. No one has ever said that to her before. And she flounders with an inadequate response. "I know, kiddo. I'm sorry, but… you'll be okay, I promise."

"Will you? Will my dad?"

"What do you mean?"

"He and Clarke are friends, but you make him happy. He smiles more when you're around. He laughs more. He's happier, Eliza. Please don't leave." Madi's eyes are dark round spheres, wide and worried in her small face.

The duchess tries to inhale as a sharp searing heat slices through her chest. She looks up at the ceiling to keep the swiftly forming tears from falling. Because that is the last thing that Madi needs to see. Finally, Eliza glances back down and says quietly, truthfully, "I wish I could stay, please believe me. But no matter where I am or where you are, I will always care about you, Madi. And your father. You both will always have a special place in my heart. Always."

Madi only jerks her head once before turning over, face buried into her stuffed teddy. The girl's shoulders are rigid and it breaks Eliza to know that she is causing this pain. She places her hand on the child's back but Madi only stiffens and clutches her teddy tighter. Eliza leans over, pressing a kiss to those dark curls. Then those stubborn tears begin to fall in earnest and she makes a swift retreat from Madi's room before the child can hear or see the evidence.

Eliza breathes in and out several times in a pitiful attempt to assuage the burning sensation in her chest. But it won't dissipate. It won't lighten. Because it's her own fault. She put it there. And as Eliza leans against the wall of the dark hallway, one thing becomes abundantly clear to her — she never should have done this. Come here. Switched places. It was selfish. So incredibly selfish.