"Am I different?" There's an honesty in her voice, a tired but searching tone that has nothing to do with an insecurity. There's no pleading to be reassured either way, nothing that speaks to a trembling pride. She's had Envy crawling through her and is pulling herself back together, is cleaning out the dirt and tangles.

"I don't mean... I know this makes me different," and Ginevra lifts her left hand, lets the Mark glow through her glove for a moment. "But there are so many people who do care. Just, as Sera says, they are the little people so the big people ignore all the individual kindnesses and bravery. It's not just me. Maybe I let more people do that, because I can get up there and be the Herald and take the heat for it. But I..."

This is hard. Hard to admit to, here with him. He isn't the reassuring presence of Mother Giselle, he's the reassuring presence of Blackwall. Blackwall, who isn't afraid to call out horseshit when he sees it.

"I'm not sure where the line is, between taking responsibility and letting it all go to my head."