He can't rightly keep hold of her, can't reconcile the urge to tighten his hand around hers with the obvious: she wants him to let go. She pulls, and his grip loosens, releases his hold on her hand. If he regrets the loss of that small contact, well, that's his problem. It's not Wysteria's task to steady him in this moment. He closes his hand in on itself, shakes his head slightly.

"You know."

Wysteria knows her own mind. She's clever, unravels everything quickly when her interest is piqued. Whatever lurks unspoken after that break in her recitation is likely another piece of evidence he'd rather she turn her attention from. The skin over one knuckle has split in the cold, dot of blood rising and then shaken away as Ellis looks at her. There's some immediate urge to apologize, but he can recognize that for what it is: a stopgap against the bigger problem, even if his remorse for her upset is sincere.

"Finish your thought."

And then what?