Swiftcurrent Creek neck full of mockingbirds, all calling your name

He makes a good point — if something were to realistically be done, the truth of Silvertongue's life will come unravelling before her eyes. It was troubling, retraumatizing enough for Wren to know the past of the riverwoman. The memory of that pain in her eyes, the shallow heaves; the sanctity of their connection, now buried in the glade, the grip she'd held on Wren's wrist —
Ugh. You're-- you're right. Maybe we shouldn't, sheepishly, she pulls her forelegs into her chest. I don't wanna know what would happen to her if anybody else knew.
Anger is one hell of a drug, and she knows this.
When asked about what Silvertongue herself wanted, she pauses. I think she wants him gone just as much as we do. But I don't know how to help her.

Another drawn out pause, a slowing of her breath as well as her heartbeat. She thinks, then, of Eshe; of the solemn look Wren had been given at the mention of Akavir's name. The pretty, nice girl. Too nice. Something else begins to bubble up inside of her, the heat returning to a boiling point. Jealousy, like an intravenous opioid that now courses her veins and stirs within her chest.
And oh, was it so wrong to want the Mayfair man the same way she wanted Silvertongue?
Only now does she look at him, and she hadn't even the time to stop herself. What's goin' on between you and that girl Eshe?