With the chin-strings of her bonnet newly waxed and most of the knots scraped out of her hair, Gloria Wynsee fancies herself quite presentable. Of course, in her estimation, there are kinder women, smarter women, more graceful women; there are women with more teeth than her, with fewer pockmarks on their faces and certainly ones with more hands than her. There are women with finer manners than her, women bearing less regrets and more lofty ambitions; they've cleaner dresses, finer homes, more books! And why Dejicere — a young man with shining boots and angled ears, a Jerno — extends his courtesies to her leaves her wondering—
—but as she lingers in front of the portal to his apartment in the Broken Dagger, with her lone fist nervously winding itself in and out of her soot-stained apron, she doesn't think it too fruitful to linger on the whys.
Nervous sweat beads on her palm. She obliviously wipes the black droplets on the kirtle of her skirts, then knocks the backs of her knuckles against the frame of his door.
It's night. It's late. Perhaps he's sleeping; perhaps he's dancing through fields of thought and philosophy and anatomy-study and doesn't want to be disturbed. Perhaps—
"Dejicere," Gloria murmurs into the door, crushing her cheek and nose against the wood. "Are you still awake? I certainly don't want to disturb you, but — but I confess: I've had a dash of wine. Derry Red. Have you had it? It was Glenn Burnie's favorite, too, but to the Veldt with that disingenuous man; I've claimed the taste as mine, and..." Find a point, Glour'eya. Smart boys don't waste their time with babbling girls! "And as I said," she recounts, "I've had a pinch of wine, and — and I thought you might like to sing again, if the mood strikes you. Or perhaps read. Or simply talk.
"So may I come in?"