[Palamedes opens his mouth to suggest that that's objectively not how any of this is supposed to work, but ah, again: he doesn't really know, in here. One of these memory-spaces he'd been dropped in kept changing around him, travel unnecessary, to say nothing of how this place is not the River. No, he would have figured it out by now; the ghosts would be ghosts, and a handful of them wouldn't be here, and so on.

So, then: Paul says they can open a door. Palamedes manages a grim kind of smirk, as if opening doors is the thing here that's been the most troubling to remember.

First things first, then. He comes back around the table to Paul's side again, deliberately looking at his hand — something to remember for later — and shakes his head. The murmur of dinner conversation goes on behind them, half-ghosts of a handful of people Paul has loved and respected, and—

Oh, actually. He taps Paul on the shoulder, motioning for him to take a quick gander at Gideon flexing at the dinner table and Harrow being, well, Harrow-y in her sulky paint. First things first:] I should have mentioned those two; the Ninth, for when you see them around.

[They tend to flock to the same places Palamedes does, so it's merely an inevitability. He sighs then and rolls his shoulders, like waking himself up from an unpleasant daydream. The half-memory of a Lyctor gives a wheezy sort of giggle somewhere behind him, and for a brief moment he wants to put his hand around the sound and squeeze.

But no.

So.]

Thank you, by the way. Technically, she didn't do anything to me — but thank you. [That "technically" is doing a whole lot of heavy lifting, but never mind it as Palamedes heads for the door into the corridor, motioning for Paul to follow.] Lucky for us, I remember every door I've been through here. I'll warn you: it doesn't get much prettier.

[But it's Paul's turn, then, to bleed them into a musty hallway. Palamedes nods.]