Bitchin' is definitely a thing she's heard out of Gideon's mouth before, and Harrow has the briefest moment of horror wondering if this child has met not only her necromantic rival, but her infuriating sham of a cavalier as well. It wouldn't surprise her; Gideon's made connections in Darrow far beyond anything she might have dreamed of on Drearburh, friendships more solid than whatever the Cohort could have provided. She'd always dreamed of popularity--and now she has it.

"Harrowhark the First," she says, letting the rote formality of introductions push away that turn in her thoughts. "Ninth saint to..." She trails off then, the words tasting oddly false, oddly stiff and ashen, in her mouth. She lets out a sigh. "I'm Harrow."