He met her eye. He had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them with one of his innumerable handkerchiefs. “Ninth,” he said, “if she were capable of anything, in order to become a Lyctor—don’t you think she’d be one already? If she really wanted to watch the world burn—wouldn’t we all be alight?” “Stop flattering her. But—thanks,” said Gideon, and she darted off into the corridor after Harrow.
