She had last heard that voice in the River, the bubble he'd created--better and more solidly than hers, though it still pains her to admit it. Hearing it now imparts no further proof of her surroundings, no clear evidence that this is anything more than another construct, another space in non-space as the necromancer stepping through Gideon's front door had put it to her once. Harrow wonders, half-madly, how many papers he's managed to write on the subject by now.

Sextus sees her then, and freezes, astonishment glinting in the clear grey of his eyes. Harrow stalls too, layers of memory jostling for space in her head; the true and the constructed, reality and unreality crashing in on each other and turning nonsensical the evidence she's beholding right at this moment. The rushing in her ears sounds like water, but as she feels the warm drip of it along her skin, and yet more flowing from her nose--again, and at least Gideon's left the room this time--Harrow knows it isn't.

"I wasn't cognizant of the way I lied, last time," she says, her voice nasal and clogged with the blood flooding her sinuses. "I did know you in that life. I will know you in the next one. But how, Warden, are you here?"