Her hand, unscathed save perhaps from one or two little marks that might as easily be from a surly cat as anything else, is drawn back.

"Undoubtedly. We keep such thorough records," she says, all dry humor even as the pipe is set back between her teeth. Mumbling conversarionally past it, her hands both compelled now to the activity of gathering the loose deck of cards— "Why the charade? You are a Rifter."

Does Loxley know?