Harrow keeps herself from looking too deeply into that shrug, assessing it as some kind of judgement against her. It's as difficult as she expects it to be, though at least the task of forcing herself to eat provides some distraction. She works her way methodically around the plate: rice, then fruit, then a sip of water; a bite of bread and a slim forkful of salad. The routine of it helps.

"It's still bizarre," she says after a few minutes, glancing up at the leaves above their heads, the green of them turned achingly luminous as the sun beats down. "Being this close again to Dominicus. To what isn't Dominicus yet, but will be in a myriad."