The twinned blades at Gwenaëlle's thighs, slim and sharp, have mirrored uses. The blade she selects, drawing it from the sheath without fanfare — a threat without showmanship or especial drama, a matter of fact statement of intent — has a particular dull glow that speaks, to familiar eyes, of corrupting runes. It will be worse before it's better.

Holding it, she doesn't look apologetic or uncertain. The set of her jaw holds resolve, and the way she studies their captive without looking at his eyes doesn't, actually, seem like purposeful avoidance. More: incidental. His eyes are not immediately relevant to running through her mental catalogue of recent study, where she doesn't want to nick something that will cut their time in half, where it will hurt without immediately threatening life.

It's always a fifty-fifty, paging through the anatomy books she's been studying at home, if her marginalia notes are about healing or harming. The shape of the questions she poses to Stephen while she's reading, is this true, is that accurate.

It is so straightforward to her. Downstairs, there is a baby. In front of her, there is an obstacle to that baby leaving safely.

When she does look directly at him, it's briefly to say, “When everyone's ready. Tell him when you want me to stop.” It's briefly because she's moving behind him; where his hands are.