His ward practically singes the air, makes her own power stir against the inside of her fingertips below the skin, but she only offers him a sunny smile. "I suppose it could be easily missed," she replies with light laugh, and the sound vibrates up the shaft of the cane from her ribcage to his hand.

She neither leans closer nor pulls away, like the pointed jab — both the physical and spoken one — isn't something to be rebuffed by just yet. Acknowledging the threat, but not being reactive to it.

"And yet," she says after a moment. "There are other, far less sonorous places here at the Hall you could enjoy the quiet of, if you really wanted to. So: here to observe of your own volition, or been ordered? My condolences, either way."