I've been nice, and now I'm tired, alright? I'm tired, and I hurt, and I want you to tell me something that matters.

[ Clara can't keep her voice from cracking on the last word; her emotions feel scrubbed raw, heart raked over the coals. Others have had their souls exposed against their will, demons manipulating their thoughts. Then there's the sickness. Always, the sickness.

Tired as she is, her hand stays firm on the umbrella and she tugs just a little toward her. Not hard, and not meant to actually move him. Her eyes stay on the Child's, and this time when she speaks, her voice is quiet once more, the furrow between her brows softening. ]

Please?