“Lyov,” she says, and that's never going to be her whole answer, but this comes slower than the rest. The tight press of her mouth eases under that gentle touch to her hair; she twists her fingers in the edge of his robe, allowing herself to be grounded. Present, in this moment, and not spinning dizzyingly out into a hundred previous.

More haltingly—

“I don't— what do you know about the Tranquil?”