She grinned back at him over her shoulder, chuckling softly at his exasperated reaction. She wasn't talking about dancing anymore, not really. She had heard his hesitation - employment - and had to look away from him. She worried a bit of her bottom lip between her teeth and paused long enough to trace her fingers over the intricate carvings etched into the front of a glass-paned cabinet, her fingertips leaving no prints in their wake. "I don't want to lighten anything, Kennet. I know you a bit better than that, anyway. I..." She paused. She wanted to tell him that she wanted his mood to be his own. She wanted to tell him that she could remember the month, the day, and the hour of the first time Thorsten had ever made her smile because it had been the first time in over one hundred years that she had done so. Because sometimes walls were necessary. And that if he wanted to be a sour-faced grump who never danced and rolled his eyes at her, that she would let him do so in peace if she knew it was because it was something he chose. She wanted to say all of this n a mad rush, but his warning in the Symphony reminded her not to. Thinking it was probably bad enough. She sighed and let the words die on her tongue.
"I just think one dance wouldn't hurt," she said instead.
She hadn't had friends in the years of her own imprisonment... she wondered again how it might have been different if she had. She spun away from the glass and continued her tactile exploration, enjoying the way her fingers glided and curled over the winding patterns in his furniture and the way her shadows danced in the soft glow of the space. When she spoke again, there was a conversational air to her observation: "You mention the witch often."