Yvaine flushes brightly and her fingers stray to her wrist to worry at a chain that isn't there. Free. It's very strange.

"Oh," she stammers absently, rubbing at the unbound skin. "I - it is correct then?"

That little voice - the one that usually supplies her with witty and unfavorable things to say about people (namely Tristran) - is laughing. Loudly. At her.

She's not expressly fond of it.