[there's a change that comes over her - subtle, only visible to the perceptive, to those that can look close. a tension pulled up as by threads, a more measured intake of breath, a care on her words.

part of her wants to tell. wants to grab someone and tell them and have them understand that she cannot go back, no matter how much of a miserable coward it makes her, shirking her own atonement because she is so, so tired. have them look at her and know what hangs over her head. and part of her never, ever wants to tell - let them think she's ordinary, let them think the life of Emily Dyer never had upheavals like this, wasn't forged from blood.

does she trust him enough to tell him this? she doesn't know. but she feels the cracks, spiderweb thin, in her resolve, and reaches a compromise.]

...It's a long story. Should we get out of this unscathed enough, I'll tell you on the station. I'd rather one of those things didn't break in during the middle of the telling.

[and by then, perhaps she'll know how much she wants to tell anyone.]