Sabine doesn't point out his rush nor chooses to belabor an example to the opposite. There's precarity to all of this, and that's easier to follow Jack's lead when he's there. But he's not—and he won't always be—and she doesn't know where the middle is yet, if there will be one. There's a wide shining rainbow-white stone for the High Priestess' moon that no pays as much attention as the artist must have hoped.

His words are all facts and nothing more, stacked in a list, like a report, and Sabine doesn't know what the misstep was or even if there was one. There isn't a perfect path to pick; there never is. Her fingertips trail the edge of the corners where the glass panes meet again. Such an absently human gesture when she still doesn't know how real she might or might not be, but she's growing a habit of it. Letting her fingers linger along things.

Like it's a quiet, patient-fed pet and not
a voracious starved black hole hungry
for the physicality of The Real.

She hasn't noticed it this time because she's watching Kyle instead of either other. He started them on this topic, but it doesn't mean he wants her answers. Sabine's words softened, "He trusts you quite a bit to have told you about those; you must know that."