She loses some of the easy softness of fond reminiscence, the way her spine straightens answering the question for her before she says a word; yes, of course. It was a remark that had lingered, and she doubts she'll soon (or ever) forget the way it had lodged somewhere between her ribs. She'd remembered it when she looked at her mother, standing steadily a few paces behind her-

“We still have a difference of opinion,” she says, a little more neutrally, “on the definition of 'your' people.”

He'd given her a pass on it, the way she lashed out in the library, absorbed in the deaths of her sisters. The fact remains that she doesn't feel differently when the heat of the moment has cooled, that it has always been a point of contention - if her blood doesn't make them her people, who's he to claim them? It isn't fair, and she's even less inclined to budge now he understands where her antipathy to it comes from.