The gossip-that-must-be-about-us stays in that strange, indistinct, garbled state—most of the time. Here and there, words stand out. Never a full sentence. Never enough to provide context. Just enough for Gwen to feel it in her spine like knives.

"—dangerous—" "—that poor boy—" "—bad influence—" "—freak of nature—" "—killer—"

Pale, almost grey blue-green starts seeping around from Gwen's back into the deeper blues and purples in the skin and clothes facing Darcy.

"Why— why are you we here?" tumbles past her lips, both pronouns somehow hanging equally present in the air.