"Because what you planned was impossible, Sextus," Harrow says, the immediate urge she has to bicker about this a welcome distraction after the last few days--even as she knows where Pal intends for it to lead. "Keeping yourself together by the proverbial skin of your spectral teeth, generating a projection, a bubble even of limited size and restricted detail..." She trails off, making an abrupt, exasperated sound. "It defies every theory about the River, as well you know."

Taking a sip of her tea, she watches him pace, aware of the energy vibrating through nearly every inch of his angular, rail-thin frame. His eyes are the calmest thing about him, in that moment, though even the thick lenses of his glasses do nothing to diffuse their intensity. "It did," she says. "A static rendering of everything within your line of sight. The structure held for...a foot beyond that in any direction, roughly, but that leeway space was blank. Almost gelatinous to the touch, though you cautioned me not to push too firmly." Pressing her lips together, she raises one eyebrow. "I heeded the advice."

Harrow knows what he's asking when he asks about the work, and now with her mind restored and more evidence before the both of them, the guilt she feels at their wasted opportunity is sharp and terrible. "Not immediately," she says, hedging for even a minute's more reprieve. "You first had to tell me about the sequel you were writing on the wallpaper to the single readable book within your construct. The Necromancer's Marriage Season."