At that moment, Manley sank heavily back onto the floor, pounding his legs in frustration, his eyes clouded with a sickly, brooding darkness.
Citrine glanced up at the glass ceiling of the conservatory, then lowered her gaze. Although it was meant to be a sunlit garden, heavy curtains and blackout panels sealed out every trace of light, leaving the space in shadow.
She could sense that Manley was in a foul mood, but she didn't get angry. Instead, she walked over and crouched in front of him, gently intercepting his fists before he could strike his legs again.
"Uncle."
Manley jerked his head up, staring straight into Citrine's calm, steady eyes.
"Citrine? What are you doing here?" He blinked at her in surprise. Until now, he'd assumed it was Zelda who had come in.
"I'm here to help Travis with his homework." Seeing that he'd stopped hurting himself, Citrine released his hands.
"Did I scare you just now?" Manley was suddenly overwhelmed with self-loathing as he recalled how harshly he'd treated her just moments before.
"You're not a monster, Uncle. Why would you scare me?" Citrine met his gaze, making no mention of his earlier outburst, as if it had never happened.
Without another word, she helped Manley up from the floor and into his wheelchair, draping a light blanket over his legs as she did so.
This time, Manley didn't push her away.
He was caught a little off guard by Citrine's easy manner. But soon, a new wave of discomfort washed over him.
Not only had Citrine witnessed his breakdown, she'd also seen his legs—shrunken, twisted, and utterly useless.
Those hideous legs. She must be disgusted, he thought. Even he couldn't bear to look at them, let alone anyone else.
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