"I can't see it clear," she breathes. "But it's wrong."

Wrong like the sound of the thinny in Eyebolt canyon; wrong like the insectile greedy whispering among the crowd that burned her.

She's right, Alain thinks, hands hovering ready to draw. Cuthbert feels it too, he can see that from the way his friend's turned grim, no laughter in him now as they brace themselves for the fight.