She pursed her lips. There was another name, shed like old skin, another life, prison and loneliness and ache. Oh, she never wanted to be hurt like that again, no, and anger stirred in her belly. Inky black, like veins or roots, spread over her skin, seemingly coming from the dress itself, over her shoulders and along her arms to curl lovingly around her wrists. She didn't notice, or if she did, it clearly didn't bother her. "Someone weak," she said, finally.
Her interest in what he'd been writing was fleeting, fickle, and she raised one shoulder in a shrug. Oh, well. She considered his offer to sit, but she didn't think she had anywhere else to be. Not yet. "Thank you, Jonathan," she said with a nod, and turned to sit, smooth, graceful, one leg crossed over the other at the knee.