Eleanor's hand flew to her mouth. Margaret took an involuntary step backward into the hallway, as though putting distance between herself and whatever David had become in the dark. "What," Eleanor breathed, "did you do." "I didn't—" David's voice cracked. He was shaking now, visibly, his whole frame trembling in the dim blue light filtering through the bedroom curtains. "I didn't do anything, I swear to you, I—" He pulled back the sleeve of his black silk pajama top, and Clara saw it before her mind could process what she was looking at — two fresh, deep claw marks torn across his forearm, still bleeding faintly, the skin around them already darkening into something that looked less like an injury and more like a warning. "Oh my God," Clara whispered, reaching for him despite her own fear, despite the way her mother and aunt had both gone rigid in the doorway. "David, what happened to your arm—" "I was hiding from your family," David said, and his voice had dropped into something raw, something that sounded less like an accusation and more like a confession he'd been carrying silently for longer than Clara had known him. "Clara, I need you to understand — I have been hiding from your family since before we ever met."