Any further blame she feels compelled to ascribe to herself is locked away behind pursed lips, furrowed brow—she'd thought it an elegant solution to concerns about inspiring others to follow in her footsteps, but maybe it was unnecessary, after all. If Stephen had pushed back even slightly—

But he didn't, and they can't change anything about how it went now. Whatever regrets either of them might have, they'll have to live with them.

"Was he—I hope he didn't feel... responsible, in any way. He's no more at fault than either of us," if Stephen is insistent that she shouldn't blame herself, and she insists that Stephen shouldn't blame himself, certainly Volante is even less a part of that conversation than they are. More quietly, an aside to herself, "I'll have to check in with him."

She tries to think to what she does remember of that long, hazy period: snippets and snatches of conversation, fogged apparitions and a heavy blanket of confusion over all. What did she say? Nothing coherent, likely, and she has no secrets that she's afraid of having divulged, but—

"I, we, conversed sometimes, didn't we? I remember that I spoke to you, I can't imagine it was anything that could be described as lucid, but—"