Zelda was explaining, and Zelda was begging, and Zelda might have been giving good reasons that she might have accepted had she been listening—but somewhere along the line she'd blanked out, blinking rapidly as she worked through her thoughts and through her memories. There were some things she remembered.
She remembered the little half-smiles Zelda would give her in the company of the Fisk family to appear friendly during the time they hadn't been speaking. She remembered returning them, trying to meet Zelda's eyes but having her efforts interrupted by another conversation or another family member.
She remembered he sitting alone in the rocking chair she'd been given as a gift shortly before giving birth, struggling to get Elliott to latch properly as she tried to breastfeed. She remembered refusing a nursemaid because, as a mediwitch, she thought she ought to know how to take care of an infant on her own. She remembered crying—because of the pain, but also because she hadn't known what she was doing despite feeling that she should. She remembered being afraid to ask anyone about it, and not having anyone to confide in about it. She remembered hiring a nursemaid anyways, because she'd felt like a failure.
She remembered being in the same room with Ari and Zelda and talking about Elliott in casual conversation, and not having any suspicions that Zelda knew. And yet she had, and she hadn't said anything, because Zelda was still ignoring her. Zelda had known the truth—that she'd been in trouble, that some other man had fathered her baby, and never had she asked.
"You knew. You knew and you hated me anyways," she said, tears watering up in her eyes.