[ The only failure, in Clea's eyes, was herself. She saw nothing but imperfections when she caught glimpses of herself reflected in glass. Nothing but cracks and poorly executed repairs. Clea could only begin to imagine what other people saw — what her father saw. A woman repainted, over and over, unrecognizable, unreachable.

Still, she had her pride. If Clea clung to nothing else from her likeness, it would always be that. And seeing Renoir now, the single model by which she'd built herself, was almost too much.

We exchanged words earned a nod. It is good to see you nearly broke her. Clea didn't move for a moment, didn't breathe, looking more like a statue than ever. ] It's been some time, [ was what she managed, hating herself for this vulnerability. It was always so difficult with him. But she fought it. She fought it fiercely. ]

I expect we'll need to speak with these hosts of ours. [ A show of strength. That would totally work. ] I've had no luck with it as of yet, but I imagine it's only a matter of time.