She takes her hands away when the smoke crosses them, balls them into fists that she presses into her skirt. The crinoline underneath the brocade silk crinkles from the pressure, folds and makes room in the dip where one thigh crosses over the other.

"Well you must love her just as much back, or else you wouldn't stay." It's still quiet, like she's intimidated to say anything but compliments loudly, and even the pitch of her voice has lowered, from the docile, sweet highness it usually bears. "The only thing keeping you there is you. So why complain? You could leave them to fend for themselves, if you're really so unhappy."

The whole time, Swann has kept her gaze fixed on the counter, as if there's a spot there that hypnotizes her.

"Viatrix is a fine mother," and it's a lie that comes easily, after all these years of telling it. "I couldn't ask for anything more."