She was still shoving down the memories of carnage and destruction — still trying to ignore the scent of charred meat that was suddenly flooding her nostrils — when Ezra felt it prudent to further rub salt in her wounds. The items he had, the jewelry and handkerchief and the gloves — Rosalie hadn't allowed herself to dwell upon those these past few months either. And to bring it up so casually, to ask her about them whilst surrounded by what felt like hundreds of people, was entirely unfair.

Am I a joke to you? Rosalie nearly spat. He'd left her in that modiste, had left her to her grief and confusion with the certainty that they would never speak again. And now — now he was seeking her out, forcing her to stay in situations she obviously wanted to leave. Rosalie would've slapped him if she had any less of a hold on her restraint. Instead, after biting back a host of shouts and demands, she managed a bitter, "goodbye" and turned on her heel to leave.

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