It's not blood magic. Not hers anyway. That much he's instantly certain of.

It may be the only thing he is sure of. Her hand planted there in the wet handprint of her blood and the sheen of the knife are simple enough. Even the knitting muscle and flesh and bone are-- a large enough question to be displaced from the immediacy of the room. But the rest-- there, she has him. If not for that pledge, it would be easy to find some reason to usher her right back out that window, off the back of the Walrus and be done with it. But.

It begs questions, doesn't it?

"That sounds like a generous offer." He lays the penknife on the table, though his hand lingers over it. She's no mage, she isn't corrupted - both easy things to say, the inverse of which speaks to some ingrained, self-preserving caution. Who believes the first thing someone tells them about magic and blood? Certainly no one from the North. "Is there a reason you're giving it to me?"

Allow him to say it again in a more genteel fashion: What the fuck are you doing here, Lakshmi Bai? What do you want?