Winter nodded, her hand unconsciously moving to her arm again. "They were trying to rewrite them. I couldn't let them do that. It felt wrong."
"So you took them instead," I confirmed. "Absorbed them into yourself."
"It wasn't really a conscious decision," she shook her head. "It just happened. Like my body knew what to do even if my mind didn't."
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been troubling me for three days. "Did you see anything while you were unconscious?"
Something in my tone must have alerted her. "Why? Did I talk in my sleep or something?"
"You repeated the same phrase. Multiple times." I kept my voice carefully neutral. "You said, 'Don't let them make me a weapon.' Over and over."
Winter went very still, her fingers tightening around the coffee cup. "I don't remember saying that."
"Do you know what it might refer to?"
She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant. "The Harbingers talked about using me. About redirecting my prophecy if they couldn't stop it." She looked up at me, her gray eyes troubled. "I think they want to use me to control fate somehow. To put things back the way they were."
The implications were disturbing. If Winter's prophecy truly was rewriting others, if it represented a fundamental shift in how fate operated, then the entities who had previously controlled that system would naturally see her as a threat, or an opportunity.
"The Bureau won't allow that to happen," I assured her, surprised by my own conviction. "Your protection remains our priority."
"Is that why I'm in quarantine? For my protection?"
I hesitated. "Partially. Your condition also presents certain challenges."
"You mean I might accidentally turn more people into ferrets."
"Among other concerns, yes."
Winter sighed, leaning back against her pillows. The blue markings pulsed more slowly now, as if responding to her fatigue. "So I'm stuck here. A prisoner with good intentions."
"Not a prisoner," I corrected automatically without thinking. "A patient under observation."
"Is there a difference?"
The question was pointed, and I found myself without a ready answer. According to Bureau protocols, there was indeed aclear distinction between containment and quarantine. But from Winter's perspective, I could see how the difference might seem unimportant to her.
"You're not a prisoner. Prisoners don't get contraband coffee."
That earned me a small smile before it faded. "Are you scared of me now, Fenric?"
The question caught me off guard. "Scared?"
"Of what I'm becoming. Of what I might do." Her voice was quiet but steady. "I absorbed dozens of prophecy fragments. I can feel them inside me, changing me. Sometimes I look at my hands and they don't seem like mine anymore."
I considered my answer carefully. Bureau protocol would dictate a reassuring but noncommittal response, something that acknowledged her concerns without confirming them.
Instead, I found myself saying, "No. I'm scared of what will happen if they make you feel like you should be."
Winter's eyes widened slightly, surprised by my candor. "That's not the answer I expected."
"It's not the answer I expected to give," I shrugged.
We sat in silence for a moment, the backward-ticking clock the only sound in the room. Something had shifted between us, some invisible barrier lowered.
"Fenric," Winter broke the silence, "what happens now? With the prophecy, with me, with all of this?"
"I don't know. The Bureau is still analyzing the data from the breach. Dr. Thornwick has theories, but nothing conclusive."
