What work, Gideon wonders. She believes Harrow, sure, because that isn't what Harrow would lie about. The evidence is simply lacking. Pointing out Harrow failed at something always goes over as well as a space suit out of oxygen. Gideon can't do that with Harrow crying.

Her arms wrap around Harrow and pull her in close. A tight embrace that means safety and comfort and accidentally leaning her food on a stick against Harrow's hair. With attention that says Gideon's here for Harrow and a casualness that does not draw attention to removing bits of grain from her hair, Gideon brushes the back of Harrow's head. "Serial killers usually don't care to give you the time to finish your side of things," Gideon says. "It's a miracle any of us lived." Especially with how slow on the uptake they had been. Palamedes had been faster than the rest of them, but time had run out by then.

Because she's tired of finding things out late, when the shit is hitting the fan and feces are going everywhere, Gideon says, "Trust me now."