Solomon followed with as much confidence as if it was anyone else leading him. Well, as if it was Ravel leading him, anyway. He had a bruise on that shoulder now. When China left his hand on the chair Solomon ran it up and over the back until he knew its dimensions, and then used both hands to keep those dimensions as he lowered himself into it.

Such obvious blindness. Impossible to be anything other than genuine. The chair, physical objects, were entirely dark to him.

Solomon looked up at her with a faint, wry smile of his own. A slightly puzzled one too, just because of that odd ... resonance. It was like the web had quivered, and he felt the pulse it sent out at him. It didn't quite reach him, belling softly into meaninglessness before it got there. It was familiar, but Solomon had to take a moment to sort out to which sensation it was. After the Cleaver, his understanding of the lifestream was a bit muddled.

"You don't have a better nature," he answered in the meantime. "You don't have a lesser nature, either. You have nothing but a hole ripped out from the centre of you. Like I did."

Last night, Corrival had had a thought that reached for him and made it. In fact, there had been a number of times that had happened, little waves of intent, matching and meeting in the middle between souls. This one had felt somehow directed, though, which was why he'd noticed it, and--

Oh. Solomon tilted his head, lips quirking more strongly in amused bafflement. "Did you just try to think at me?"