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The lie started to trip off her tongue as it had for the last two years, always "oh, I'm well—" but she couldn't tell him that. Not when she had all but disappeared from his life in these last some ten days. Especially not when she had a letter from him in her room, rolled and unrolled so many times it now had creases, until she'd stuffed it under her mattress in an act of desperation. It may have been only one letter, but its contents indicated there had been others she hadn't seen. Even so, she couldn't bring herself to respond.

If she was being honest about why, it became less that she'd lied to him about what she was doing with her life, and more that she gave Drystan's words more mind than she ought to have. Penelope tried to believe intellectually there was nothing wrong with what she and Charles had. But the way her brother went on about how that Spinnet was using her and what quality of character that gave him had her thinking… what if the roles were reversed? If it was she who was this horrible person exploiting people's feelings for her own gain, not giving notice or care to how her actions affected other people. Taking, doing, what she wanted. So far, the evidence pointed to yes. Now, it felt dirty and cheap where before it had felt livening and lovely and somehow very, very real.

Feeling suddenly old, she rubbed the back of her hand over an eye, willing away the prickles of tears that had been an unwavering though desperately unwanted companion for days. "I've been—" awful, ashamed, embarrassed, wai— "—sorting some things out." Though it was late September and there wasn't yet the bite to the breeze they might expect in fall, she brought the thin cloak closer around her as though chilled. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, her hand surreptitiously finding its way to tangle nervously in her curls, "for not… for being—I had some—" She ducked her head in an effort to hide the hitch in her voice and shut her eyes against the tears. A lick of self-directed temper held them at bay, and she met his gaze full-on, if a little desperately. "Family issues. I didn't think—" But she couldn't think of a lie or fib or even truth to finish her sentence.