Her expression twists with disagreement she doesn't voice, looking down at her hands. The left, numbed and limp, rests on the table; the right, itching and restless, curls against the wood. Both are, she realizes now, mangled, covered in injuries of her own infliction. Shadows cast from her candle render them alien and bizarre, and she can see a spot that, were she not having this conversation, she might feel compelled to set her nails to.

But the work is the most important part. She's sure of that. There's a war on, and not one over something as petty as land or a butt in a chair. This is a war for the future of the world, it matters. Far more than her hands, at any rate.

"What," she starts, and then reconsiders, and shuts her mouth. Tries harder to puzzle through what Stephen could possibly mean by that,

and comes up with an answer she visibly hates, sitting up straighter in her seat.

"But I'm good at it! I can stop worrying about my hands, I won't pay attention to the itching any more. I—I worked—"

Ness trails off, self-conscious, and slowly slumps in her seat. If Stephen thinks she shouldn't be Quartermaster if she's unwell, no one in their right mind would listen to her instead of him. Riftwatch got by without a Quartermaster for a while, it could do so again—and anyway, it's not as though she has any unique qualification for the job.

But she'd earned this post. She'd applied, and interviewed, and thrown herself into it as hard as she could, trying to earn her keep.

Sadly, defeated: "I know anyone could do it, but I thought I was good at it."