Yseult seems to notice his hand then, though she'd hardly have missed it, and reaches out to meet it with some degree of hesitation or at least distraction. But her grip is firm, palm cool. She watches her fingers settle around his.

"The last time I wondered about a father or some other mystery family I was ten years old and shivering myself to sleep on a rooftop." There's some derisive note in her tone, consigning such notions to childhood or desperation or both. "Is it weaker to want it or not to?"