Later, she will remember the white knuckles, and she will remember the too-even tone, and she will remember the Trust me, Regan. And, in the unspoken depths of the mind where horrible and unavoidable thoughts lurk, she will begin to wonder.

But for now she is still reeling. Her world, their family, shattered long ago, but she held enough of the pieces together with the glue of denial and self-control and memory and blindness to... manage. To keep going. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

That's blown apart, now. Blown to scattering shrapnel.

"Tiān xiăodé," she whispers. "You're going to do it, aren't you? Whatever I say."

It's not accusing; it's not bitter. It's blank but for dawning, bleak comprehension.