The points of her ears swiveled forward in interest. "Before the what? Before the tul--ah, beg pardon, the..." Once tultharian got into her head, she genuinely could not find the word they used for themselves, and had to click her fingers in front of her face before it finally returned. "Before the human king, you mean? How long is that?"
Before the Crossing? Before the Sister-Queens? The very idea thrilled her to the bone. But he couldn't be as old as all that; he must mean his people had been here so long. Where were his people? Where was anyone? Who were the others who came in summer? Had all this been sitting right behind her den this whole while, nigh on four years? Why then had the circle forbade her cross it? What about--?
She suddenly felt starved for answers, wanting to pounce on him and rummage his pockets. But she was meant to be a guest, and she hadn't even been shown through the door yet. They did not know one another, and he, poor thing, had not even a pocket to rummage, no good neighbor she. Plenty of time to let him put on some trousers and the two of them share a civil drink ere she started in plundering.
He opened the door, and she, with a ladylike mien that clashed with her rag-bag winter wraps, dipped her head to step beneath the frame. If her fingers lingered momentarily upon the runes, it was incidental, only long enough to tell if they wished her welcome or meant her ill. She blinked rapidly as her pupils shrank to adjust to firelight, and her gaze slowly traveled around the enclosed space, curious but uncritical. Not finding herself invited in often, it was always interesting to see how other people lived.
At last her slow revolve brought her back around to face him. She studied him as well as he turned to draw the ale. One of the Others. She had seen a few of them but rarely up close. They were a bit of a puzzle, a whole in history. This one was polite enough. Bit mannerly for her tastes but overly mannered was probably better than the alternative, particularly when one had started off on the foot of bold burglary.
When he offered her the bowl, her own manners stumbled briefly: did she take it from him or bend to sip while he held? The second way stirred dark connotations. She didn't feel much like pledging herself to anything tonight.
Instead of fumbling, she held herself in check, pride stepping in to cover the lack. She would do exactly as she would do at home, and if it was wrong, he could correct her, if he cared. Carefully she touched her first two fingers to the liquid at the edge of the bowl, then flicked her wrist. Two little droplets flew away to vanish upon the floor. "Seo don Mháthair."
Only then did she cup both hands under the bowl, lifting it slightly toward him as she met his eyes. "Sláinte mhaith." And sipped.