In the hour that Mika and Cecilia were away, Fauna found herself slipping into the restroom more times than she cared to count.
Each time she thought she had composed herself, a fresh wave of treacherous warmth would bloom between her thighs, soaking her anew.
No matter how carefully she wiped and cleaned, the more her mind circled the forbidden thoughts—the imagined cradle, the dark-haired baby, Cecilia's words—the more her body betrayed her with humiliating slickness.
She sat on the closed lid in the stall, face buried in her hands, whispering frantic scoldings to herself, mortified that even a Battle Angel could be reduced to this.
The other doctors and nurses who noticed her frequent trips exchanged sympathetic glances.
"Poor Lady Fauna." One whispered outside the door. "Even someone as strong as her gets stomach troubles. She's really just like the rest of us."
