[The thorns catch her. It may be a residue of nostalgia, her least treasured emotion, but the invitation to amusement in Lazarus' grey glance shades seafoam green to Mercymorn.]
Isn't it.
[There is barely a smile on her lips, an upward sliced curve to one corner, but her eyes glint back like mirrors.]
You did get him out of the house.
[Her hair is as unbound as it was this morning, but sleekly straightened and styled since. It cascades like silt-tinged water when she tips her head.]
no subject
Isn't it.
[There is barely a smile on her lips, an upward sliced curve to one corner, but her eyes glint back like mirrors.]
You did get him out of the house.
[Her hair is as unbound as it was this morning, but sleekly straightened and styled since. It cascades like silt-tinged water when she tips her head.]
Should I thank you for it, or not?