The trick with the book is as remarkable the second time as the first, more so because Harrow cannot detect a familiar signature--thanergenic or thalergenic--powering the theorem, if a theorem it was. She has her doubts on that front, and the mystery therein both disturbs and intrigues. What catches her attention most, though, is the nosebleed; that is all too recognizable, and all too recent a memory.

While Harrow's expression grows no less imperious, her rigid posture relaxes, just fractionally. "A distressing number of my acquaintances would say rules are bullshit," she says. "I do not always agree, but in this case..."

Her lips pinch, her ears attuned to the sound of someone else approaching--her Lyctoral senses, too, listening for the wet and repulsive sound of a heartbeat--for a moment before she lifts a hand and works a bone stud out of her ear. "A fair exchange," she says, then presses the rounded bit of bone to the side of the nearest bookshelf. Almost on contact, it unfolds itself, roots itself to the wood with barbed hooks of bone on one end while the other moves upwards, shaping itself into the long bones of the arm, then blossoming into a perfectly articulated hand. It reaches up, plucking a book from the highest shelf before moving to lay it on Harrow's outstretched palm. Her dark eyes cut over to the other girl's, her expression just slightly smug.