She held him with a different gaze now, an intensity of fire in her eyes daring him to underestimate her in some manner. She resisted the small voice begging her to calm down, to trust that Samuel was not so small of a man. She resisted until he offered his hands.

Her eyes flicked from his to his palms. There were so many questions she'd formed in the last weeks, but this was her first opportunity to see them without pushing him past the boundary she believed existed there. While one palm appeared almost healed, the still appeared raw to her eyes. Did they pain him? Did they affect the sensation in his hands? How was his wandwork? Did he view them with pride or disgust; was it both?

Setting her glass on the window ledge, she considered only a moment more before stepping to him. This felt consequential in a way that lacked words. She did not make any vow lightly and did not tie herself to things or people without knowing (or writing) her terms. She had no idea what she was agreeing to do; did not know the goal of his experiments. This was unwise, imprudent, and yet, she was choosing her path.

She put her hands in his.

“Then I am with you.”

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   Samuel Griffith