Lan Wangji is just as quiet, but it is not a tranquil quiet. He does know this face. He knows it from leading Thursday and Claudius around the mansion grounds, accompanied by a jar of beads. He knew already that Thursday, apparently, has Aornis' face, or the icy jolt of the imagery would be more sickening. Still: he curls his fingers into his own robes, a controlled release of tension. There is something about how incontrovertible this is: she was here. She moved among them. She was real, and then she erased herself.