Her fist shoves violently into his stomach, forcing a little trickle of blood to come up and bubble between his shivering teeth, spraying all over her hand.
“Flamina?” he says softly, looking up at her with red smudges on his face.
So calm. As if he knows... But he can’t. He can’t! He... can’t know. He... must not...
He knows. He has to. How? How did he find out? It was... perfect.
Despite herself, her fingers unbuckle themselves from that fist and slacken, riding limply along her lower thigh. Dimly she can feel her face beginning to revert, losing cohesion temporarily. If he sees her now, the way she really looks...
“You’re not really a clown, are you, Doctor?” she asks, looking down at him.
But his head has lolled.
He is asleep.