Once again, the concern throws Cassandra off. What is it about this place? She manages a soft little laugh, though. “I’ve had worse,” she tells him lightly, easily, and the sound of her voice confirms his suspicion that she’s young. And British, if her rather proper sounding accent means anything. (It doesn’t, because Whitestone isn’t anywhere near England. But the accents are almost identical.)

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs softly. Deft fingers find the clasp in the back, and she undoes it with ease, lifting the broken visor away from his face carefully, so as to not cut him. “There,” she says. “It’s done.”