Vaguely, Palamedes had expected knowing her name to inspire some kind of feeling. He's sure it does, somewhere in the space where he's put her face and her words and her dispassionate disregard of the lives she took, her impotent fury. Somewhere down there an emotion stirs to think of her as Cytherea, not the Lyctor, and damningly— he doesn't know if it's anger of his own. A fresh application of rage would be perfectly reasonable, and anything else - well.

Risky.

He nods and picks up the bag, heading for the door. His first instinct is to go in silence, damn God and damn his Lyctors and maybe go scrape Cytherea off whatever she eventually died upon and ask her what anybody else's name is; Palamedes doesn't believe the Saint, like, cares. About his Seventh.

But for her sake, then. He's at the door; he half-turns, hand against the doorframe.

"Dulcinea Septimus," he says weightily, without embellishment, and then turning to go, "I'll see you around, Saint."