Nanshe remembered. She remembered when Utu walked into that zigguret, there to remain shuttered from the rest of the world for centuries, centuries, until the world was wholly changed forever -- and everything was new again. But there had been one thing, in all of the changing world, that stayed the same. She loved him then. She loved him even now.
What if she had spoken to him then? And how much time had they lost between their own respective fears, prides, oblivions? A bittersweet smile played over the softness of her lips. Her fingers squeezed tight against Morpheus' hands before she stood. He needed a reason. He needed something outside himself, something to recommend his presence, something to give him an excuse to go to Morpheus. If it couldn't just be him and her and them, then she could at least give him what he needed. "I know," she responded softly, answering many things all at once in those words.
She pressed the plate of macaroons into his hands to replace her own, refilled his tea, then left him on the couch. Though she disappeared from view, the sounds of rustling leaves of paper, tiny glass chinking sounds, and smooth scritching from the room where she'd gone told Morpheus enough of what she was doing -- and the fact that she hadn't abandoned him. She came out a minute later, a fine envelope nd a pair of scissors in one hand, and a brief, ink-written missive in the other. This last, she blew on gently.
"I'll be right back," she said belatedly, setting the letter and its envelope on the small coffee table in front of Morpheus. The letter was clearly an invitation - addressed to Makaria, and in Nanshe's hand - but there was yet something else she wanted to give her mirror. She left him there on the couch, willing him to read the note while she was gone, hopefully so that he could see the plan before she returned.
And when she did return, it was with a nice bouquet of pansies and roses - elegance with a touch of the common - with neatly cut stems and sprigs of balancing rose leaves. When she sat down again on the couch beside the Greek, one of her hands tugged out the ribbon that had been holding her mass of brown hair back away from her face. It was flat, soft, brown silk, and tied into a bow around the stems very nicely.
"There," she said. "Now I've sent you. But the flowers, those are your idea."