The pen's accepted with grudging good grace, and so's the abrupt removal of her the pencil from her grasp. Paul is not wrong: While she'd had little, birdy designs on keeping both treasures (at least for a moment), her oversoul knows better than to renege on a fair bargain. She settles back with the pen in her beak and watches him--listens to him explain himself.

There is a grief here; she'd heard about it before waking, or sensed it, something. The absence of someone Paul needed--an absence not ameliorated by an Omen lurking about like an unshriven ghost. This, her Sleeper would say, is a species of mourning--this: I'd prefer you not touch these.

She sets the pen down and walks over to these, to the box of pencils that bear no signatures for her. She looks at them through the box with her head cocked, then looks back up at Paul, and through him.

Then, clearly, shakes her head. She hadn't known all that. no. comes a feeling, to add to the gesture. Then no. again, on the verge of a question, as she waves a forefoot at the box and projects an image of her (or anyone) taking ??any?? of its contents out.