She almost misses it, truthfully. If somehow Frisk found their way into her SOUL, it would undoubtedly shine purple, the odds to keep going whatever the cost, to live, to survive. But there's no denying that bit of red, the way she has learned to shape the world, the way she has taken her brush strokes and written herself from the narrative. But what tells her isn't any of that. It's the muscle memory of being remade. Of, at the top of each year, she and her companions would break into a thousand pieces, knit back together, and the transfer of action in that leap.

What happens, is she almost misses a line where she was drawing. And Frisk takes the next line right out of her mouth.

"... And how exactly did you pick those words?" Lucretia can't be sure, but curiosity has found her as she readjusts her hand properly. "I hadn't quite mentioned ink smudges."