"That is true." He ponders, eyes roaming a little too widely in the room, dwelling too long on her body, her face. He’s not used to company, has forgotten the polite regulation of gaze. "Do you know, for the first few months I actively loathed you. And then after that I became a little enamoured. Stockholm syndrome, or some such. Then you...faded. Now I find you here, in my very holdfast, and you’re almost like a friend. A very old, very bad friend. An estranged sibling who took the family home. It does occur to me, though, that if the System is compromised and you are arrayed against the villain—and you are here—then there’s every chance you may be on the wrong side of history. What will they do to you, do you think, if you oppose them and fail?"