Silence is not safety, unless you have a culprit's corpse in your hands -- and in Myrken Wood, even this has sometimes proven unreliable. For enduring proof, witness one Thadius Dhrin, thrice dead, and presently residing in a Constabulary cell despite it. But a glance at the swordswoman's expression will tell a person her opinion on this matter: that silence is respite, an opportunity to regroup and confer.
Oh, but there is so much more written there, if only briefly, for they have spoken of excruciatingly personal matters, and that is not quite their custom. It is certainly not Ariane's, and her features betray this: there is some real tension to the throat, the mouth; some very necessary distance within her gaze, which has wandered almost unceasingly, and found a home at last fixed at some point far past the Constable's shoulder. It's from there that she must return when the man speaks again, with some tiny motion of the head and a snap of unguarded eyes back to his; there is a devouring hardness there.
"Yes."
Simply that. Nothing more than confirmation is required, for this man with whom she'd spoken of monsters and their ways so long ago. To do more would require that she place her spirit upon display in this room, and she will spare both of them that. When she speaks again, it's with a throat moistened by ghastly jenever, fine antidote that it is to monstrous dealings, and with features that have remembered to be gentle.
"So. Galacia. Bromn. I tell you this now, that we send word to Lamai Carver -- do you recall her? She is gone to study in that Razasan that was Savoy's home, and we call her back to us far earlier than she'll like. She will forgive us this, because for so many months, her business was Altias Bromn; was the keeping of that 'witch from his mind."