The Senecas seem strangely calmer now. Still they look past you, not at you, but without pupils who can blame them? Their heads are high, their shoulders proud and chests still unmoved by the regular human desire to breathe.
They only stand there, and look at each other when Toulouse speaks.
It’s hard to tell what sponsors the movement. Fear that the question is right, smug satisfaction that it’s wrong—their expressions are cool and only a little tremulous, the eyes unmoving brightly, the spines long and proud. Their acknowledgement of the pair is trivial at best.
But, of course, they still answer.
“Yes,” laughs the third Seneca.
“Yes,” reassures the second.
“No,” smirks the first.
