[ she jumps like someone has fired an arrow into her. but, no, it's just aleksander's voice. in her head as if he were right in front of her, speaking. she presses a hand to her chest, apologizes to the bookbinder, and steps into the backroom of the shop.

she speaks aloud because she doesn't trust herself not to cross her wires if she trusts the voice inside of her head. a stray thought could make its way in. that could be dangerous—deadly. ]

You don't always have control over them, do you? Your shadows. [ that's all she can imagine he'd specifically be apologizing for. the way he'd allowed them to roil and furl towards her. ] I don't know why I thought it'd be different for you than it is for me. Age, I suppose.