“I can speak only for my own world and the way that I have known it,” Petrana says, evenly; she has had such practise at not rising when provoked, and more than that, it is patently obvious that whatever provocation is here has absolutely nothing to do with her. “You have said several times now that you wish to understand it.”

She considers the scene before them as it shifts, just a glimpse of Marius and Petrana—not in a bed, nor a bedroom. A corridor. He stands at a distance as a little girl is pulled forcibly from her arms, expression impassive. The girl is handed to him; he doesn't flinch, walking away, as Petrana screams at his back.

“I would not have your only grasp of my world's situation come from my murderer.”