The moments passed in silence. Peter held her, and she stood very still, no expression on her face. She could feel the desperate hope in Peter, the one small, fragile belief that maybe, maybe they were all somewhere better than this broken world. Evey couldn't afford hope. She rejected it ruthlessly. Just as ruthless with her own thoughts, she captured every useless bit of denial, every bleeding thread of pain, and quickly boxed them up in her head. She couldn't afford them, either. The people around her needed strength. Peter needed strength. She needed strength.
And all this was, was weakness. She despised it. She despised her own reaction. Disgusted with herself, she finally pulled her body up straight and set her fingertips against the arms around her.
There was work still to do. And there was no sense in grieving over something that was out of her control. Grief was only useful if it turned pain into action, action that made things better instead of worse. She wouldn't allow herself to be caught up in the debilitating miasma of loss that she felt threatening her. No. She was better than that. And the people around her deserved more from her than this. Her mouth had grown tight and hard. She almost seemed angry, would have seemed angry, but for the lack of fire behind her eyes. Those eyes were flat and still as stones.
"It's all right," she said to Peter, in reaction to his pain. But the words felt cold and meaningless. "Let's get to work."