Palamedes expression remains concerned, even gentle, but there’s still a sense of remove in his eyes. He cares about this person because she is in distress, but it remains that he does not know her, cannot know her, in fact. And perhaps, too, the sheer emotional exhaustion of the day’s events and the nature of the bubble itself create an even further divide between himself and anything that could be considered deep emotion.

Yet he remains kind, terribly kind. Does he believe her? Palamedes isn’t even sure he can understand her, but clearly she believes what she is saying. “All right, all right,” he says gently. “Take a breath.” And he takes his own advice, too, because for all his outward calm, he can hardly see straight.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I understand that you do not wish to leave. I appreciate it, truly. But this room—I know it looks solid, but it’s as delicate as a soap bubble. The slightest bit of interference and it will pop, and we’ll both go tumbling into the River, and I—“ he falters, something of the hope, and fear, and despair he is holding back flickering across his face, “I cannot allow that to happen.”

He closes his eyes suddenly, wincing. “God, I have such a headache—well, not a headache, I suppose. Except in the metaphysical sense. Not without blood vessels to constrict or pain receptors to fire. But it sure fucking feels like it.”