"'See me kneel,'" she says, turning the talisman between her fingers. The angle of Fitcher's knee is very biddable, bringing a span of thigh around with it. With her spare hand, she removes the pipe from between her teeth so she might more easily continue the quotation. The tenor of the thing is low and smoky regardless. "'For I walk only where You would bid me. Sing only the words You place in my throat.'"

From her hazy wreath, Fitcher gives him a toothy grin.

"Your colleagues should consider implementing a few Verses. They're good fun."

With a last pull of smoke, the pipe too is displaced to the side table where it may burn itself out at a reasonably safe distance for her half organized stack of papers. Her hand moves from the token about his neck to his wrist, turning his forearm over so she might examine the scar she left him with.

"My, I am good with a needle." But more importantly, it's much easier to coax him closer with his wrist than without it.