[ It is lightness and giggles and glee, two grown women in wartime somehow innocent even after everything. A houseboat is much like a tree house that way, something that carries the scent of youthful adventure and freedom. Alexandrie exclaims over everything. The boat itself, the furnishings, the artwork. And when they are alone, finally alone and away from the world in a place she knows is safe, her shoulders lower for the first time in months.

She is quiet until the glass is in her hands and the wine is in the glass and her gaze is in the wine, and then in Orlesian as is their wont: ]

I almost like it better, knowing there is no safety anywhere. The numbness of the Game, the unrelieved falsehood of it... It is horrible, but in comparison to pretending true honesty? I think I prefer it.

[ When she looks up her jaw is set. ]

Papa is not ill. There is a blood mage working in the household at Val Fontaine.