Her dress didn't allow much room for sweeping curtsies, but a girl learned to work with what's available. Mischa tucked one ankle behind the other and dipped, honoring a wealth of childhood etiquette and Jane Austen specials. "Sir, I do crave pardon for any discomforting travel your thoughts risked on my most humble behalf."
The gleam of her grin, however, was significantly less courtly as she took the offered hand. "Ok, no more metaphysics or false hopes. Who needs heartbreak? It never bought me a drink. Lets have nothing but hardboiled logic and coffee from here on in. Well, maybe with a spot of tea and biscuits." She swung their joined hands between, happy as a child. "Come on, come on. I've got the neatest bit of 17th century skulduggery in my office. There's--well, actually, we think it got pulled out someone's skull." She rushed upwards, Cam in tow. "It happens. So one of the lab-mice and I were hoping to reconstruct--oh, balls."
Mischa's gaze was fixed over Cam's shoulder at a painting that had, despite all possibility and precaution, slipped off its hook to hang a very pronounced angle.
"Fifty grand worth of detailing and we can't a damn piece of paper to hang firm." She sighed and let go of Cam's hand. "Sorry, I've got to fix it or the bloody nuisance will activate every OCC impulse in the building. Wait for me upstairs, 'kay? It's the first door on the right."
Really, she thought, we should've just bought a bucket of nails and tacks for all it's done us.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mischa suddenly paused and turned to look back up at her companion. "I lied. About what I'd ask a god if I could. Because if I could ask anything, I'd ask..."
Exactly what I'd asked before: you.
"...for all I love to be preserved." She smiled, turning. "Remember, first on the right."