Rose knew already that danger approached on soft feet; no one spent as many years on the run as she had, lived physically incapable of hurting another being, without learning to recognize predators in whatever form they used. But he had taken care to approach from the front, and Rose wasn't the type to run scared. She could be cautious, yes, and it was a guarded hazel gaze that met blue eyes in the dark as she gently closed the book and stood. It didn't do much; she was tall, but even standing he was nearly a foot taller.
"I am doing well, thank you," she said, voice low and polite. "But I prefer to be called Rose, these days." A foreign-sounding name drew more attention in America than not, and habits learned over a lifetime were not easily broken. She'd always adapted her name to the area in which she lived - Rosette, Rosalind, RosalĂa. The last one to call her by her given name had been her husband. She was not yet ready to share that, and this small assertion was accompanied by a faint lift to her chin, the subtle squaring of tense shoulders.
"You are... the ringmaster?" A faint upward inflection on the last word, turning it from statement of fact to question. She'd been told he was in charge of work assignments, but hadn't been sure if such decisions applied to her. She had no circus show-worthy talents, and no responsible doctor would allow surgery to become entertainment.