Nothing Harrow says means anything to Palamedes—which is too bad, really, since it sounds extraordinarily like a compliment. That hardly matters, anyway, not when there’s suddenly blood dripping out of her nose and ears, further making a mess of her face and staining the transparent white of her robes.

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” he says with the kind of sing-song false conversationally eventually adopted by all medical practitioners. “I’m working on a theory. Sit. Gideon!” This he calls over his shoulder as he waves Harrow towards the couch. “Get me a towel and—Emperor’s bones, please tell me you have some kind of first aid kit!”