She smiles, how could she not? Moistens her lower lip, where the wine had dried her. How does she give him an answer? She can’t tell the truth, can she? Time pedals on, some comfort in the seamless sameness of the quiet seconds traipsing. She fingers the lace square of her busk, stammering on the embroidery with her idle fingers. Her heart palpitates to remind her to breathe, feeling for the phantom of the choker she’d removed, some orphaned comfort item on that table now. She has not horsed that zenith of manipulative chatter the other girls bask in the talents of. She will have to discover that balance between being a pleasing personality for the culls to enjoy, and being honest with herself.
“You and I have never met, of course. You could’ve been this... horror of a man with unfavorable appetites, ill repute, crude and savage. I expected something awful to come and claim me, despite having heard nothing but good of you. In my life, I have been shown to expect the worst, time and time again, but when you walked in, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I knew you. I could see it. So, no. I'm not afraid of you. I was meant to do this.”