A grin hooks her laugh-line, rouge marionette, she’s not prepared for him to wrench that in his favor like so. She’s accustomed to wily nightcreatures, & never met a wolf that meant harm, least not when he's a man. & for but a moment she forgets her reluctance and surrenders.
“Johanna.” It feels dangerous to utter her true name, like the sweet taste of the end of a match between the teeth. She’s still clover & myrrh, but where a dreamy enthusiasm once lined the course of her castle-moss eyes, there’s a mutedly disquieted expression in the vestige. She clamps the condensation of the rawcolored, glowing-green, empties the glass down her throat. Get it over with. Get it done before she goes soft.
“Just your luck, not far a walk at all. Can come back here right after… “
Jo stands and sprawls her fingers over her hair, feeling without sight, attending to loose strands of Dutch braids, pulls her bonnet on to take her leave with a hop off the stool and onto her pointed black shoes.