[ This man is disturbed. Woe has been in the presence of enough disturbed people - been the cause of enough disturbance herself - to recognize the signs. It could be a fleeting distress, or induced by the lighthouse he cannot help but make noticeable in how pointed he does not want to notice it, or a persistent condition. Distinguishing which it might be doesn't concern her overmuch. But she does note it, and for now, decides against more scolding about crabs. The point seems to have hit. ]

That's what we're here for, isn't it.

[ The words exist in a limbo between question, dismissal, and some third, secret thing, known only to herself. They're quiet, if nothing else, and drained of some of her previous astringent sting. ]

We may as well get on with it. [ She glances down at his feet again, lips thinned. ] But wrap those up, first. I won't be carrying you up or down stairs, thank you very much.

[ And she knows what blooms off the tower in a yet-lingering cloud, the radiant energy she used to stitch herself shut and hold herself together against the hunger that still gnaws greedily at her unruly marrow. She will not look at it either. She is certain that she has had more practice in the not-looking than this man.

(Green as glass, green as grass, green as the eyes of the third martyr.)

She shudders, and wraps her arms around herself as if cold. ]

What do you call yourself?