She is still extraordinary, hair spilling across her white shoulders like black satin, the elegance of her face and cool, hooded eyes unmarred by the sheen of dust and sweat over her skin, a bruise spreading over one shoulder. The bruise is from the Akuma attack; he has been assured that she was offered no harm during the journey.
He bows to her with impeccable precision and she smiles like a Sphinx. “Will you come in, supervisor?” She inquires, gesturing gracefully to the cold stone cell. “I am afraid I cannot offer you the hospitality I once could.”
No barb there, for all the imperious contempt he has seen her address Inspector Revelier with. Only a serene, absolute composure.
“Your presence, I’m sure, is generosity enough.” Etiquette, grace, courtesy. The pretty words make her smile, a more human expression of wry amusement.
“Come inside, Komui Li.” She says, and her voice is a warm caress. “Your sister told me about you.”
Rinali. He swallows hard, wonders what she had to say, and opens the cell door himself to step down to her level and bow again. She does not rise, simply folds her hands into her lap and inclines her head.
“Well, supervisor,” she says, “what have you come here for?”
He almost lifts the sheaf of papers in his right hand, then shakes his head. “To—to tell you. To apologize, maybe.” A long, weighted silence. “Mahoja is recovering.” He tells her. “Miranda will be fine.”
“And Allen Walker?” At his raised eyebrows, she smiles and lifts a graceful hand to shield her mouth, a gesture of practiced coquettishness. “Rinali told me about him.”
Oh she did, did she? An automatic, suspicious scowl before his attention was diverted by the prisoner’s brief, musical hum of laughter.
“Is he well?” She presses.
“Yes. He’s fine. His Innocence recovered.”
The smile fades and for a brief second she is intensely human, dark and fierce. “Has it, supervisor?” She asks, voice low and rich with suppressed emotion. “There are too many children in your war.”
You think I don’t know that? He looks away, then looked back to bow once more, short and polite. There are no words for that not-quite-accusation.
After a moment she sighs and sweeps out a hand, silk falling from the long graceful line of her arm. Her skin is remarkably pale, porcelain-clear. “Sit, supervisor.” She says quietly. “I think perhaps we could both use some human company. I, in the cold stone prison of this church, and you snared squarely in its less...physical imprisonments. Sit, and speak with me a while.”