It would aggravate Marius to be ignored and so it aggravates his shade, but Petrana doesn't allow herself to even curl her lip; ignores the rush of satisfaction at his expression, because it isn't real. It isn't him. He has risen to great heights and let her fall from them, and there is no comfort from that to be found in mocking a mimicry.

“No,” she says, succinctly. “That is—” A breath, her brows pulling together in a frown as she tries to think of what to say. And what to say isn't an answer, exactly, to the question that Kitty has asked—not an answer to what was the reason, but it doesn't need to be when there is another misunderstanding in it to address, instead:

“If I had raised my hand when I was afraid, you would not then say, ah, we are protecting the women with fists. I knew of no living witches, bar my husband's tutor, at the beginning. It was a surprise how many there were, in truth, but not at all that so few of the women who had died for the crime had ever committed it.”