[She blinks at the bow; she is used to them, but often she is seated on a throne and not a wooden bench when she receives such courtesies. Emily fidgets with a sleeve, only briefly, as she decides what to say next. One arm keeps around her dragon's egg, unmoving.]

If you wish to provide me with security and comfort, you would tell me that my world is not destroyed, and that this is all some farce that someone will be paying for shortly. [Frustration rings in her words, but she cannot bring herself to sound accusatory to someone who is merely offering help.] All of this is unbelievable. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved, gone. How does anyone simply adjust?