Jo and Sol, 1:30am
"I've always been cheerful and easy, and scarce have I needed a foe. While some after money run crazy, I merrily Rosin'd the Bow. I have traveled this wide world all over, and now to another I'll go. I know that good quarters are waiting, to welcome old Rosin the beau."
Midnight has come and gone, and serious topics have not been broached - have not broken through the whirl of dancing and joking and half-masked playacted satire and dark eyes and sharp smiles, and Sol has not minded. With the key to the room they've been given in one hand, and a mostly full bottle of pilfered whiskey in the other, Sol makes his way toward the room they've been given with a rhyme on his lips and Jo alongside. He looks sidelong at her, grins while he lifts up his bottle and sips. His bowtie is undone and knotted at his throat like an ascot, his silver-threaded jacket open to the vest underneath, and black hair falls across his forehead, making him look much more pirate than shelter leader - and certainly more than any new money Hartford Smythe. Especially when he goes another verse with the Irish bar song he learned in Dublin so long ago.
"I feel that old tyrant approaching, that cruel remorseless old foe, and I lift up me glass in his honor. Take a drink with old Rosin the Beau." He offers his bottle to her when they reach the right hallway - one Sol is fairly familiar with from the few other times he's had reason to stay at the Capitol, though he liked none of the reasons as well as he likes this one tonight. When the right door is open he holds it and gestures Jo in ahead of him. "Your suite, Miz Geraldine," he says.