Freyja, smoothing an errant lock of hair at her cheek, turned to look at the young woman who had entered. She was pretty, dark haired, mid-twenties, and Freyja gave her a warm and genuine smile as she approached. "Marcie," she said, the quasi-Icelandic accent (and her own nature) lending a melody to the name. "Hecate was just telling us about you." She reached out and took the hand that Marcie wasn't holding the clothes in and gave it a warm squeeze. "I'm Freyja, and I'm so glad you're here."
There was no artifice to her words, no sense that she was overstating anything or trying to make nice with ulterior motives. Freyja never had ulterior motives.
Behind her, Morgan resisted the urge to roll her eyes and continued stroking Kaden.