Food and book were forgotten for the time being, because just for the briefest of moments she was so willing to grab onto a familiar conversation topic - because you don't live and breathe stories your whole life, and work in a library the list 30 or so years without having them at the edge of your mind's eye practically all the time. To the point where she let who she was speaking to become secondary, "And only he could make the same joke a dozen different ways and still seem clever."
And then she was back. Questions about what she was now and what she used to be set her on edge. There was a reason she hid herself behind layers and stayed to her routine most of the time. You couldn't speak of what she was without telling how she became, and she wasn't ready for that. Instead she became defensive, Pixie merry mischief unseen, instead that sharp, New Yorker attitude, "Why do ya' wanna know? Are all Fae this side of the Summerlands as nosy as you?" But a bristling face didn't hide how she wrapped herself up more, sitting up straighter even as she tried to be smaller. It would be worse if a Fae found out. They would understand, and that was somehow worse.