The temptation to simply stare at the man was very strong. What little polish Eppie had managed to pick up may have schooled her outward responses, but it had done nothing to change her inner landscape. She was still bold as brass, and she still had her shining brass ankle cuffs tucked away somewhere to prove it. She wanted to ask him if he meant it, she wanted desperately to slip back into the comforting cadences of Dyton tongue - that mix of cant and rhyming slang that was - if she were honest - truly her first language. Ah, but this was a more subtle sort of game, even if it was at heart the same game. One simply didn't start reading the bones at this stage. Eppie repeated to herself the catechism she'd been taught as a child: Speak first the Golden Wings, then use the Silver Tongue. Next comes Brass Tacks, and then Quicksilver Dance, and, finally (if needed), the Iron Kiss. Always in order, never switched around. She'd grown up on stories told of the fates that befell those who forgot the nursery rhyme. Her eyes lifted to his, with a knowing her blushing cheeks instantly belied.
"Ah, I wish t'were so, Sir. I suspec' you flatter me! Lord knows I'm a simple sort've girl, quite silly an' fond, I know it - and yet..." she smiled then, and felt warmth bloom in her belly. "Yet...seems th' angels did gift me wiv a mind that takes a lesson well, and I should think meself sa'isfied wiv that."