She can't help it; her heart triphammers at the sound of those clicks, her throat tightens, her hands go cold and clammy. She isn't afraid of the man in front of her, but the impersonal guns --

Her lips move, the smallest bit. Lo ira' rah, ki atah imadi.

Fear fades, anger fades, disgust fades.

"Gentlemen," she says again -- quiet, conversational, addressing not Fifty-Eight but the gunmen around him -- "I can't tell you what to think. But if the Lord were on this man's side, I think things might look a little different here."

She steps backward, into the soft radiance of the guardian spell.

"How about you do what you're gonna do, and I'll do what I'm gonna do. And if no one means any harm, then no one has to do any. It's up to you."

And she turns, to reach for the snare around Mulcahy's neck and try to work it free.