Something in Pearl, wound tight and brittle, eases. Of course she knew Rose wasn't really mad -- of course she knew Rose wouldn't, doesn't, really think those things of her. But knowing and feeling aren't the same thing at all, are they? Or so she's learning.

Rose is beckoning her -- is pulling her in -- Pearl's suddenly desperate for as much contact as possible, wanting to be held and surrounded and comforted in soft arms, and she tries her best to crawl into the waiting lap. It's difficult, because the space is so tight and the hard floor is awkward and her legs don't have anywhere to go, but she manages to put her arms about Rose's neck and bury her wet face in a warm shoulder. Her throat works. "I'm sorry," she tries uncertainly. Somehow the words feel so much more heavy than the apologies she was whimpering earlier.