The conversation began far from what he was expecting, so it was with considerable bewilderment that Howell accepted the box from Saoirse. Bewilderment which only grew upon seeings it contents. It was not until some moments after she had spoken that her words sank in and he could make sense of the pieces he was staring at. His eyes didn't lift from the wooden shards, but he no longer saw them. Instead, Howell had uncomfortably clear visions of a drab St Mungo's room and of a fragile, pale girl whom he had just begun to know, curled up atop the bedding.
The sickness and worry he had felt then, when they had barely known each other and she was more another victim to read about in the papers, was a laughable relief compared to the fear which lanced through his stomach now to think about that month. "From the summer?" he asked tightly, his knuckles turning white around his grip on the package."When you were—" Howell stumbled over the next word, unable to bring himself to say it though the word echoed harshly within his own head. "—taken?" he finally settled on.
Finally, he raised his gaze from the box to look at Saoirse, expression frozen impassively. Slowly, Howell asked, "Who sent this to you?"
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