( Such a strange temperature differential, she's missed, then. An apparent lack of the basic laws of thermodynamics would have had her questioning him even more, so perhaps it's for the best that she doesn't linger. There's already enough to be concerned about, to press him about, without adding weird physics on top of it.

At the laugh she removes her hand--it's time. She doesn't need to see anymore of him, really, and the jolt of discomfort that rattles around her own spine makes her want to reserve some of herself, for herself. She is a woman who is used to being her own source of comfort.

So, her hands go to her lap, where she digs her nails into her skin through the nano-weave fibre of her leggings. The pain this causes her is a bright counterpoint to the coldness seeping into her skin from somewhere. Something, a thing which she cannot see, is stealing her heat, like a shade sucking away her energy, the colour has drained from her face and left only a pallor on her usually stately cheeks. )

Is that ( Here, the shortest of pauses, the shortest of stumblings. She can force her voice to be calm, though. ) what your mother told you?

I admit I don't know anything about this procedure, but, if you thought it would help you, I would do my best to--undo it. I would never cut out someone's heart, that's true. But I would replace it if they needed a new one.