Harrow's face is completely painted and she's swathed head to toe in black, but to a foundling raised by the black nuns of Drearburh, the faint tint in her ears is like watching fireworks go off.

Gideon grins, asymmetrical and ridiculous. "I like it," she says, simply, just to see if that blush brightens.

But the novelty of Harrow bringing her something – bringing something for her, which, what? soon distracts her. "I'm awake, what do you mean you have something –? Harrow, what is that?"

Because that is the right size and shape for only one thing, and Gideon spares a quick moment of panic that Harrow has at last found the false bottom of her trunk. She gets up and pads, barefoot and rumple-haired, to the skeleton.