Furtiveness. Awkwardness, certainly. In Harrow's case, she has been working nonstop to save Gideon, to figure out how to return her soul to a separate state, to at least stop it from integrating to buy time. And now she has—apparently either succeeded or let her madness interfere with her hopes, especially since she hasn't actually done anything yet. She'd only just come up with a plan. A heart-rending, tragic plan, but a plan that would allow time to pass before she had to make any further steps.

"The distressing lack of skeletons. When my necromancy normalizes," it has to, it must, else she will be useless and of all the things she is, Harrowhark Nonagesimus is not useless, "I will be fixing that. And—yes. Of course I do. I am a Lyctor, after all." The youngest and generally worst Lyctor, but she is a blessed necrosaint. "And you are my cavalier, so it does not surprise me that the same was assumed." Flat and matter-of-fact: yes, Gideon, you are important.