It sounded right in her head, the irreverent gumshoe swatting down mystical pomposity. It’s very much in the nature of their encounter, but Lönnrot takes exception. Thin lips twitch in offended virtue. Hairless lips. A woman? Or a man who pays great attention to his shaving mirror? Electrolysis? Alopecia? The dark spikes could be a wig. They could be implanted. She wants to touch them and find out—professionally: the idea of sexual contact with Lönnrot feels transgressive, not grotesque or unpleasant but utterly foreign, like making love to a bookcase. Uncanny valley: the place where simulation is too close to reality to be comfortable, but too far away to be mistakable. She wonders if the whole face is prosthetic, and what might be underneath.