Ah, flattery. Zanna couldn't decide if he knew her game and was just enjoying his side of it, or if he really had such charming things to say about her. She had been surprised to see him there, the first time; his name had practically jumped off her tongue. The memory of their previous meetings had flooded right back with the sight of his face: the extravagant parties, the laughter and drink, and then the more private gatherings afterward. The sighs and gasps, so much warm flesh and such shameless debauchery.
Even for a Fae, it had been intoxicating in its luxury. And Byron had been the gatekeeper to a fair bit of it, a purveyor of beauty and sex and opulence. Her face would not have mattered, although it had been nearly the same. Not her hair, of course; during Byron's time, that had been ebony, falling past her waist, and usually very intricately styled. Being 'the mysterious woman of the Orient' had been such a lark.
"It is an herbal shop," she answered, drifting along after him. There was, indeed, a garden through the door in the back. Much larger than it should have been, rows of raised flowerbeds filled with rich, dark earth and the heady smell of flowers and herbs. "What would I do without a garden, Anson?"