Reinette recalled all too clearly how long she sat on the floor of Versailles, waiting for Jack to revive. Now he was implying this would be longer. Quite possibly a great deal longer. But she also remembered the force of her own reaction. As she recalled the time from before, when she was far younger. How the memory caused her to pull away.

Jack's expression as she did so.

"Or," she countered briskly, an edge of emotion to the single word. "I might not."

Reinette would not be leaving. And there was no one to make her do otherwise.

She focused on the small, precise actions required of her. Measuring out the poison. Stirring the tea. Carefully lifting Jack's head so she might offer it to him. She felt removed from herself. Not quite a part of what was happening.

"Belladonna, Jack. Nightshade. It can be done gently, if measured correctly."

Why that seemed so crucial she did not know.