[ Rook smiles, though his eyes narrow, looking at her for a moment. He remembers what he promised Poet and so he bites down on the tip of his tongue before finally leaning forward to whisper: ]
[ There's a moment where the corners of her painted mouth tighten, and the shape of her eyes narrows faintly. A drop of violence in her consciousness. But she doesn't touch him. Neither leans away nor towards him, her posture perfect. ]
[ It's the perfect opportunity to pour salt on the wound, to get Lady to squirm again under the recounting of all of Poet's attention, but he'd told Poet that he'd behave and so that's what Rook does. More or less. ]
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Not all the time. Sometimes it's better than the alternative.
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Or sometimes worth the sacrifice, I guess. But the circumstances you've been forced into aren't a choice.
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Are you feeling better, little sister?
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I'm very tired, Rook.
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Then perhaps you should rest.
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I can smell him on you, Rook. [ The blood of their maker. ] How much did he give you?
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He gave me enough. And then a little more.
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He did always love you best.
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