The touch was light as a feather, for the first fraction of a moment. People often said they could feel a weight to the gaze of others, when it was on them, a sort of sense for the attention – and this was the same, in a way. The crow-goddesses on my shoulders stirred, and the touch was torn through by their will like a hand through cobwebs. It came back, a little stronger, and from a myriad angles. Komena’s wings spread in irritation: the night shivered around us, and only then did the attention withdraw.

...

“So by your own admission the Choir of Mercy attempted to look into my mind,” I coldly said.

- Book 5, Chapter 26: Civility