Nobody moved for a while.
Isabella had quieted down to the occasional small hiccup, the aftermath of crying that long, and she'd ended up leaning against my side with the loose, worn-out heaviness of someone whose body had decided it was done for the night whether the rest of her agreed or not.
Mephistopheles had moved from the chair at some point. I hadn't noticed exactly when. She was sitting on my other side now, close, one hand resting lightly on my knee, watching Isabella with an expression I hadn't seen on her before.
Not mischief.
Something closer to tenderness, careful and a little unfamiliar, like she was handling it for the first time and wasn't entirely sure she was doing it right.
"You knew," I said quietly. To Mephistopheles. "Back then. You knew all of that. About her father. The 'learn about love' thing."
