There is a pot of tea, warm, on the corner of her desk. One of the heavy green mugs has been turned toward the seat, slanted at an angle towards the desk itself where Derrica stands. Her braids have been looped and pinned up higher, escaping tendrils curling at her neck, around her ears. Several layers have been discarded, shawls and woolen sweater over the back of her high chair to leave her in just her tunic, braided rope belt cinched around her waist. Informal. Easy to disguise as otherwise when she must descend to collect Mother Pleasance for dinner.

“Sit, please,” she invites. “I don’t mean to keep you long. It’s only that I have a project I would like to attempt, and I think you might be able to assist.”

Not right now, in the midst of so much upheaval. But later—

It is her habit to come around the desk, usually. She maintains her position behind it now, stood over a scattering of papers, a heavy collection of essays on the Chant open to some middle page. Her palm lifts, tipping open to the mug. His to take, if he would prefer something other than the contents of his water skin.