Behind the screen, Fuu let herself cry. Rage and cry until the fury of her tears could no longer be contained and she stumbled into the bathroom, letting the force of them hiss between her teeth, the heave of air muffled by her throat.

The tears came anyway, even if the sobs did not, warm and thick on her lower lashes until they spilled over down her face. She held herself for a long moment upright, erect . . . then gave into it, sliding to the floor, pulling legs close to bury her face into her arms.

Proof, sometimes, that she was still just a child. What was she if words -- just words -- could still reduce her to tears? Her hands tightened, forearms flexing as though she could strike -- if, indeed, there was anything to strike.

But there wasn't even that. Her fingers slackened, and she wept.

The sounds were soft, and she bit through every one that she could, but they still might carry to the kitchen.