While he examines her back she screws her eyes shut, trying to gather the courage to deal with-- with what? She has no idea what. That's the problem-- if she's been marked by whatever nefarious force or person is operating here, then her fate is unclear but presumably tragic. They know just enough to know it's not good.

The only silver lining is there's little room to feel shy, or worry that he'll take this the wrong way. To her rational mind-- which, admittedly, is only barely keeping hold of the reins-- her body is only a body; right now an open question, a piece of evidence, not a vehicle of desire.

It takes forever for him to look over the patch of skin. She tries to even out her breathing, lower her heart rate; it doesn't do much good. The heat of the candle almost itches, the ghost of his breath-- even and calm, better than she's doing-- a reminder in the darkness that she isn't alone.

It takes her half a second to process that he's spoken, and then--

"Really?!" All the panic she's been trying to swallow is audible in the word. Her eyes snap open and she twists to look at him, the shadows jumping around them, the candle a point of impossible brightness. "You're sure?"

She's already fumbling for the sleeves of her robe, but she needs him to swear to it before she can even think about relaxing.