[Yes, she is familiar. How many days had she lay in that ridiculous clinic bed with her fingers turning black at the end of her arm, wondering whether they might reserve themselves and no action at all would be necessary. That she might simply leave it as it was, because who knows what repercussions separating herself from the anchor might have?

(And before that—ignoring the debilitating urgency of the pain in her arm.)

There in the Felandaris office, Wysteria absently raises her hand to smooth the many flyaway filaments of hair at the base of her neck.]

I think—

[She thinks lots of things. The order of them takes another moment further to arrange.]

He's frightened of it. The Blight and what it may ruin. And so perhaps also Wardening. I'm not calling him a coward [—is punctuated with a swift, protective look flashing sharply in Richard's direction—], only... less objective.