It hits her as solidly as if she'd been punched, as accurately as she knows Gideon can strike, and the barrier of a wall between them only makes it worse, somehow. Better, too, because it hides the sudden flash of pain that crosses her face, grief folding in on itself again. This time, there's no mattress to collapse onto, no horrible comfort to be found in the hands of the dead; Harrow grits her teeth and hisses out a breath, forcing it away.

"Griddle," she says, each word dredged up from the memories she'd tried to suppress, weighted now with a meaning that pains her. "I barely even remember about you half the time."