It was the old Harrowhark who had said that, and believed it to be true. Who'd grudgingly needed it to be, as danger piled up around them and the mystery of Canaan House only deepened. That Harrow had done the work, and left the person she was now with the aftermath; the notes and directives, the lack of trust in her own mind, the pain of remembrance. And yet, here, those Harrows had collapsed in on one another; no longer Harrowhark Prime and Secundarius, if she ever had been either, just one person in need of being made whole again. Whatever the cost later on.

When Gideon's fingers grip her elbow, she doesn't pull away. Steeling herself for the blinding pain, she manages, finally, to turn and look up at her cavalier. "Okay," she says, with effort. "We set that aside, because you were...are...my cavalier, Nav." She has to look away then, working through the pain as Gideon walks her to the kitchen, shutting off capillaries again to staunch the bleeding before it becomes apparent. When directed to a chair, she sits without protest, aside from a wary flicker in her dark eyes when Palamedes questions her again.

"Their involvement was limited to only what was necessary," she begins. "Assisting in opening my skull, exposing the brain. Guiding me as to where and what I needed to...alter. I needed someone with the expertise in flesh magic I lacked, though it pains me to admit it." It's all too inscrutable, a roundabout answer reeking of petulance. Harrow takes a breath, already anticipating the explosion--on two likely fronts--that her next words will trigger. "Ianthe Tridentarius."