He squeezes her hand. So it wasn't just an accident -- or if it was, it's one he's willing to double-down on rather than correct. It's a comfort, and it's emboldening. Though she can't do much with the way her hand is resting on the table, she does shift her thumb against his in a small gesture of acknowledgment and gratitude.

Her marriage is a less painful topic of conversation, though she's not sure why that should be. She's had no more time to get over that loss than the loss of her son. But then again, her child had been a more recent development, long-awaited and hardly won.

And she hadn't dallied in the Woods with someone else's infant. Perhaps that's why her son's loss had always felt less... fair.

"I was," she says, with the barest hint of dryness. She can imagine why that would be a concern for Thomas, and guilt plucks at her belly. She could have explained this sooner, though she still can't imagine how else she could have brought it up. "Not anymore, I shouldn't think. I don't expect to see him again."

It's not impossible -- few things are, in Darrow -- but the thought of honoring her vows on the off chance that Darrow will drop him in her lap one day seems rather pointless. Knowing her luck, if she did, the city would just bring her some older version of him that had accepted her loss and moved on with his life, and then she'd look like a fool for waiting.

She's had enough of waiting, anyway.