"That fellow invaded your space, your—" her bread circles in the air as she tries to find the right word, "—your gri'ilith. A woman ought to have the confidence that her body will remain sovereign unless she chooses otherwise."
Gloria sucks a dollop of marmalade from her thumb, arching one of her black smears of an eyebrow.
"Even if she did take property that belonged to someone else."
And that moment, that had led them here, hadn't it? The book; the blue blood. Now, they're sitting in the shifting shadows and sunlight of the furthest end of the day, enjoying a breeze and unlikely company. For all that Gloria proclaims that they're the same, the same, the two of them couldn't be more different: Niabh is slight and plain, and Gloria, cumbersome and common, is her diametric opposite. Insufferably unfeminine. Brash. And stuck here in Myrken Wood.
When her helping of bread and marmalade is finished, Gloria mounts her palm on a bent knee and starts to stand, the tattered hems of her underskirts sticking sloppily out from beneath the sprawl of her dress. "Your desire to stay hospitable, Niabh, will vanish soon enough. And the longer you stay here, the more inevitable it will become that you must spill blood."
She doesn't inquire about the cantrips, the magic she'd seen. Instead—
"It looks like you're preparing yourself well enough. I won't tell anybody. This is our secret. The bread, however, has been a welcome repast."
The girl sucks in a breath.
"But I don't — don't want to think about mad dogs or teeth. I don't want to think about that at all."