Despite the appearance of impatience, as soon as the spirit knife is actually in Stephen's hand Ness settles, watching him in silence. Disturbing a professional at work is a fool's errand, and she's more than willing to believe Stephen is making calculations of pressure and angle that she doesn't have the knowledge to even consider.

Patience wears thin, though, when the knife finally touches her skin. She doesn't feel the cut, but then, would she have? Even without the cuff, she doubts it. It must be his tremor that concerns him, and that's easily accommodated for: Ness pushes her chair back so she can better stand and lean over the table, inspecting the precise angle at which Stephen holds the knife, the exact placement of his fingers to guide its movement.

Satisfied with her observation, and without a word or barely a thought spared for permission or instruction, she lifts the knife from his hand and pulls her numbed arm back toward herself. Her angle is precise, the placement of her fingers a passable if inexact mirror for his as she sets the blade to the shallow cut he made and deepens it severely with a swift slice.

"Oh," she breathes, watching her own blood start to well in an unfeeling wound. Her mind races, adrenaline and fascination and a little horror drowning out any objections Stephen may be trying to voice. "Not even an itch! How do they make these?"

A thought occurs, fevered, and she raises the knife again.

"You know anatomy, yes? You can tell me if my bones look right inside."