That deep affection in Harrow's voice soaks straight through Gideon's chest and idiot heart and into those bones Harrow has promised to take care of for ten thousand years. It's all still so impossible, so unanticipated: she takes each new proof of love and squirrels it away, writes it onto her ribs, transcribes it with each swing of her sword.

Every night she tries to prove to Harrow what she feels. Every morning she wakes up feeling even more.

"Sure," is what she says, however, toeing off her own shoes and following Harrow inside. There were more than a few crones on the Ninth whose hands were too shaky to use a straight razor and who were more than happy to provide Gideon with multiple instances of penance. She whistles low at the blade in the kit, though: the Ninth razors were never this sharp and new.

"How do you want to do this?"