Voss
sat on his throne and Craven Lorne paced.
“I know I said I was
going to pay her back,” Craven said nervously, stepping around a
disused stepladder. “But you've seen her, Voss. I don't think she
remembers any of it. I don't think she knows what she's done.”
Voss
looked sad. His head hung forward, his mask seemed to frown. His
crisp white suit wrinkled in dismay.
“No
one hates her for it more than I do,” Craven assured him. “And
if thought she knew—or if I thought she did it on purpose—”
Craven could feel Voss growing angry. “I know what I said, but I
don't think we should kill her. I think she's suffered enough.”
Voss
sat up, his eyeless silver mask staring at Craven – and he spoke
the first words he had spoken to Craven in a very long time. “You
don't love me.”
Craven
Lorne tripped over his protests, fought back tears, sputtered,
clamoured, begged for mercy and forgiveness, begged for Voss to
understand that there was nothing he wouldn't do – only it
didn't seem right, and he begged as well, not to be made to kill the
rabbit girl.
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