He stays quiet as she talks, with her hand on his back and her fingers only a gentle push of pressure against the back of his neck. She's seen her horrors, too. Not as if he's forgotten that. They live with her, quiet. And she's not wrong. He knows that, too.

In the silence, Darras reaches over his own back to find her hand again. The pressure of his grip is gentler this time.

Across the room, without either of them looking, an invisible wind picks up and sifts through the dust of the bones, stirring them until, with a sudden gust, the dust blows away. A puff, and then all of it, gone.

"Can you still?" There's a thickness in his voice still. Darras doesn't bother to try to swallow it. "Read palms."