Woe freezes as the butterflies take flight, her body locking up in repression of the pink smoke that wends its way from her chest and joins them in joyous whirls and dips, a peach-colored butterfly Omen at play among her seeming golden sisters.

"Yes," she says, clipped and sharp, watching her Omen frolic with a deeply unhappy set to her mouth, "Suggestive. You may end the demonstration."

She digs the thumbnail of one hand into the palm of the other, expression shifting to one of troubled thought, working at a problem like a wiggling tooth.