"I don't need your clothing," Harrow snaps, but it's delayed, distracted as she is by her surroundings. Growing up, she had spent as little time as possible in Gideon's cell, at least when Gideon was in it; she knew it as a narrow bed and a sink inset along one wall, scattered bits of mess and flimsy, foul pornographies hidden beneath her thin mattress. The rooms she's led into now are larger, vaster and more comfortable than anything at home or even amidst the ossified opulence of the Mithraeum, but--unlike either of those places--all of it is suffused with something undeniably Gideon.

It should make her head hurt, but the ache, she finds, comes from a different place entirely.

She takes hold of her robes and shakes them, focusing on the blood soaked into the fabric, gathering the energy of it in her mind. In an instant, it skeletonizes, drying to a powder--as do the stains on her shirt and trousers, all of it flaking off at once and drifting to the floor around her feet. "There. It's passable, for now."