No one enjoys to have their weaknesses laid bare, even by a tender hand before a sympathetic audience. Atticus especially dislikes it.

His chin follows the gentle pressure of her fingertip, his face turned as she wills, but his eyes are like pale blue stones as he looks down at her; a glimpse of the magister others see through the bars of his cell in the physical world, perhaps--though after a moment he reaches up to gather her hand into his, his touch gentle.

"A benefit," he repeats softly, "in my attachment to you." She isn't wrong. He brings down her hand to let it rest palm flag just over his heart, stroking one thumb over the fine bones of her wrist. Regarding her expectantly, he presses, "What would you have me do, Petrana, and to what end?"