Harrow's not a fan either. Of having feelings. At all, regardless of what they are; they are detestable and distracting, and grief colors her mind in a way she wants absolutely nothing to do with at all.

But later, she is going to fix Gideon's paint.

Somehow.

"Right," she says instead, trying to force herself to focus on that—on the theorem, and not on emotions, or what might be going through her cavalier's mind—"so we weren't ready yet, is the thing. What he thought, and what I came to concur with, is that the megatheorem wasn't finished yet. Ianthe and the original Lyctors all thought it was, but our founder, my ancestor Anastasia, she died without ascension. Why? She figured it out. That there was a way to save the cavalier, there was another step. Sextus had a start of it, relating to anchoring the soul to the body so it couldn't be entirely consumed, but ..." Harrow lets out a frustrated little noise, balling her fist until it releases a few drips of blood. "We didn't get the chance to try any of it. Or keep working on it. Damn it all."

But how much does that matter when Gideon's right in front of her? Or is all of this unreal?