Citra notes that flicker of unease across the other person's face, a familiar response wholly divorced from the familiar context, and it's both habit and stubborn pride that keep her from wincing or ducking her head. At least she chose to be a scythe. She went into it with her eyes open, and found a method of gleaning that she could be proud of. But the discomfort she causes here is harder to swallow; it's not her fault she's new. If the locals have really been living with this for years, they should know by now that no one's coming here on purpose.

But it's not as if she has to befriend this guy, or even speak to him. He just confirms what Rowan said about killer cookies, and then he's on his way. Citra stares after him for a second or two, mouth slightly open. Then, pressing her lips together, she turns back to Rowan.

"I hate it here," she deadpans, mostly for a lack of any other rejoinder.