Not a lot of squinting going on here, tragically, and any promise is almost entirely contingent on how good a mood she leaves this infirmary. Because right now Clarke is all wide eyed impatience, a mirror image of Palamedes as she flicks her gaze from the bone to his face. Probably about ten seconds from folding her arms and beginning to tap her foot.

Ripping the rib out of Skulduggery's spine hadn't brought the catharsis she'd hoped for. The stunt with the moon rock and Sun El had only brought on heartbreak. She really needs something she attempts to be productive and successful.

"On?"