Kieran's mouth twisted again. "No," he said, "I never saw him again." He considered her for a moment, carefully, eyeing the way she sat and the way she held her mug.

He liked Juliana Binns; he'd liked both (all three) versions of her when they were writing letters, and he'd liked her once they met in person, too. Kieran wasn't in the habit of loaning books to people he wasn't fond of; he didn't invite them to his flat to chat about them, and he didn't write them letters about his general feelings on the full moon. He'd written to her about guilt before, in the abstract — around when the Christmas moon had him feeling a particular level of malaise, or when he was feeling particularly worried about Jude getting caught, or or or. He had never admitted to having turned someone. It was the sort of mistake that, while almost inevitable for most werewolves, was also — earth-shattering. It couldn't be forgiven.

He was not sure if Juliana would forgive him, if he admitted to it.

She needed someone to talk to about guilt.

He frowned at her, still thinking.

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