"Good," Nevarran now, thick in the middle, "Maybe I'll cut it off and be done with this —"

But that, too, dissolves into curses as she touches it. It's already swelling, and around the faint green of the Anchor his last two knuckles push out of shape. The other hand grips his wrist, less a brace then a tether.

If he lets go, he's going to do it again.