The hand gripping her throat squeezes more tightly for a strange sense of stability, something to anchor Paloma to the spot so that she doesn't backpedal into the locked office door. It helps nobody to squirm around as if stuck in a bad dream. This is real, this isn't something she can hide from or pretend about.

"No!" she bleats, a scared quivering sheep. In the face of song those hard-earned lessons of survival among Kindred have flown away. Paloma is stripped down bare, raw, a sapling with its bark all torn off. "My friend mentioned harps. I don't know how to fight this harder than I already am, it's like I hear music and I forget I'm at war. I want to stay, I want to... keep my place. What have you heard about harps?"