Olga sighs, and some of her ire diminishes. She forgets how young the woman is sometimes.

She heaves herself off the chair and moves to sit beside her, like they did when she was very small. Her hand brushes Katya's hair back from her eyes, her fingers gently lifting her chin so she can examine the bruises.

"I should let you bleed all over your sheets."

There's a warm ripple of electricity moving across Katya's skin, already stitching up the worst of the wounds.