[He flinches physically at that sound nonetheless, haunted by the memory of those sobs-that-aren't-sobs, different and alien and horribly broken-sounding without eyes or tears to produce them. Even when Myr quiets, Van's spine stays on edge.

Because you're still talking to me is a two-way street. It grows increasingly harder to push that intrusive fact away. Because we're family is a privilege that has afforded Vandelin a lot more benefit in these past months than it has Myr. The pleading apology makes him white-knuckle the door frame, swallowing down a wave of guilt-nausea stronger than he's ever felt and frightening for that.

At a better time, maybe if it were light out, he would dispute the "we don't belong out here." But at this hour, on the border between Lowtown and Darktown, feeling small and uncertain and very alone with his unfamiliar shame, it sounds like a self-evident truth.]

I know that's not why you did it. I never thought that was why you were doing it.

You wanted to keep us in the Chantry's fold. [Not "grip," not "grasp," not "clutches," the way he's always described it before.] Even I can't compete with the Maker.