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The book was scarcely holding Minerva’s attention—hardly worth the effort of parsing out its strange symbols and putting its bizarre details into the proper context—but even if it had been wholly engrossing, she would’ve noticed Tilda entering her lounge. The young woman looked as disturbed as a Butterfly could, within her poise and composure. And for Tilda, the fact that she had deigned to be in the Widow’s presence instead of drawing out her snit proved that even for a very uncommon Butterfly, Minerva’s assessment held true.

Minerva, on the other hand, was a steel trap that nothing could escape. She didn’t let her eyes sparkle in happy acknowledgment of Tilda’s presence, even though she was pleased to see Tilda coming to her, no matter the circumstances. She almost had a wry grin, remembering the way a younger Tilda had come to her, as desperate as an addict for the reassurance that Minerva would protect her, to relive her gaining of the knowledge that there was one woman in the world who would fight for her, kill for her, even love her.

Of course, now Tilda had Odessa. She decidedly didn’t have the Widow; even now, anger fumed inside her over how Tilda had lashed out at her and cost her good men, good resources in the war against Chau. Minerva didn’t let that show. Nor did she let the ghostly grin at the memory of how Tilda had trusted her become a scowl as she thought of how far apart they’d become. The Tilda who would cling to Minerva’s leg or rest her head against Minerva’s shoulder was long dead, and this angry, bitter, accusatory Tilda was like a dog become rabid in comparison. And it made Minerva miss the loyal creature she had lost even more.

A carefully composed face. A poker face. Letting Minerva stay neutral, stay alive, until the time came to make her move. The anger fuming inside her suggested a jibe about how good Tilda was becoming at tolerating her presence; a hurtful jab at the idealism Tilda had self-righteously developed and now abandoned—just as Minerva had. But no. Whether Tilda knew it or not, approaching Minerva in this way was an overture, and she wouldn’t turn that down no matter how satisfying it proved to her wounded pride and betrayed love.

Folding the book into her lap, Minerva reached over to pick up a poker from the fireplace. Sitting in the glow of the hearth, all she had to do was lean forward to poke at the coals, stirring them to new life.

“The fire feels better over here,” she said, trying not to offend Tilda by looking at her. “You’re welcome to enjoy it.”

“There’s only one chair,” Tilda said, sounding as judgmental as ever.

She, of course, meant that Minerva was some egomaniacal tyrant, hogging the fireplace all to herself. Minerva cast her gaze downward. It was laughable; for all she’d thought of herself as a master manipulator, drawing Tilda back into the fold, she hadn’t thought that Tilda would object to sitting in her lap like she’d once done. In her resentment, Tilda probably hadn’t even considered it—just as Minerva hadn’t considered that she wouldn’t.

“You can bring a chair over,” Minerva said. “Waldo used to—so to speak.”

Tilda quirked a smile, a little embarrassed—admitting the possibility that the space at Minerva’s right hand was left open for a wheelchair, not meant as a sop to her ego. Minerva was glad for her own self-control; she was surprised at how her heart lifted to see Tilda grinning at her, and it wouldn’t do for the Widow to be seen beaming like some lovesick little girl, cooing over cats and kittens…

A cat, that’s what she is, Minerva thought to herself. So enamored with her own dignity, her independence… and yet, leave Tilda alone and find your drapes shredded. Was that what I did wrong? Ignore her? If I had shown her more attention… more affection… would she be resting at my feet even now, her head in my lap, looking up at me like I was the sun and not that milksop Odessa?

“Is there something the matter?” she asked, snapping as much at herself for her winsome thoughts as she was at Tilda. “Or does Odessa just not want your brooding to intrude on her domestic bliss?”

Tilda’s voice became quiet and dangerous. “Don’t talk about her.” It was arousing. Minerva flexed her knuckles.

“So there is trouble in paradise. What’s the matter? I do have some experience to share, if you want to do more than pout.”

“Your last relationship ended with a knife through your husband’s heart.”

“And now I’m very happy.”

Tilda was snide. “That’s the important thing, right?”

“Ahh.” The Widow leaned forward. “So Odessa is happy, but you’re not. No wonder you’re wearing that adorable pout.”

“I am happy!” Tilda snarled, prompting a full-throated laugh from the Widow that, in turn, had Tilda jumping to her feet.

Minerva waved her off. “Oh, sit down, Tilda. So your girlfriend is happy with where your relationship is and you aren’t. It happens; it’s not the end of the world.” She paused to look around. “Well… no more than usual, anyway.”

Tilda grunted, actually grunted, and seated herself again. “It’s not like that. I love her. She loves me.”

“But you don’t love all of her. Which is completely normal. Understandable, even. Not everyone can be as charming and witty and gorgeous…” Minerva noticed Tilda looking at her, eyes narrowed, and offered her a wan smile. “As others.” She settled back into her seat, tapping her fingers on the book in her lap. “So, what has she done? Doesn’t wash the dishes? Bad breath? A little too rough with those short fingernails?”

Tilda stood up again, this time so hard that she tipped the chair over. “This isn’t even any of your business.”

Direct hit, Minerva thought to herself, with the kind of inner smile she would never dare let show on her poker face. “Well, isn’t that ironic. The two of you finally manage to find a bed and now, alas…”

Tilda paced in and out of the firelight like a caged animal. “You are so annoying,” she hissed.

Minerva held up a finger. “I see. Not too rough, after all. Not rough enough.”

“It’s fine. We’re fine. What would you know about it anyway?”

“I’ve collected a great many Butterflies over the years,” Minerva said. “You’re not the first to feel more for another than sisterhood. And when people fall in love, they fall out of love. So I do try to keep things on an even keel.”

“Of course you do,” Tilda muttered. “You probably get off on arranging people together like you’re breeding show ponies.”

“I give my soldiers the freedom to love who they choose and you think that makes me a monster. Typical.”

“You being a monster makes you a monster.”

Now Minerva stood up, her better judgment shouting warnings, but an ugly anger inside her burning too hot not to send out smoke. “I may be a monster,” she said, her voice so chilled it could’ve been ice. “But this monster saved your life, when all the brave knights and noble warriors were too busy. I cared. And I still do.”

“Bullshit!” Tilda cried.

“Because I’m so evil, such a power-mad dictator, that I can’t possibly be anything else?”

“Because you won’t touch me!” Tilda shouted.

Minerva ducked her head, thinking you are an idiot. She’d thought Tilda had forgotten the glove being taken off, the bare fingers running through her hair. No Widow, only Minerva. But looking at Tilda, she didn’t know if the girl was remembering anything else.

She reached for her.

“Don’t!” Tilda yelped, slapping her hand away. “Odessa’s the one who touches me. Not you. I’m only supposed to… Odessa. She loves me.”

“But does she understand you?” Minerva asked. “Child? Does she love that little girl you were, or only the warrior you’ve become?” She tilted her head to the side. “Do you have to be the warrior with her, or can you be the girl? And which do you want to be?”

Tilda took a step back. The light from the fire danced on the unshadowed side of her face, gleaming on the track her tears had taken. Minerva reached out again, this time to wipe them away.

“Don’t,” Tilda said again, but more distantly. The warrior, trying to speak through the child.

Minerva lowered her hand. “I would never force you, never ask you to do anything you don’t want. But this is what you want.”

Tilda took another step back. Minerva didn’t follow her. And as if that emboldened her, Tilda turned around and started off at a brisk walk. When the doors closed behind her, Minerva heard it become a run.