The hand in question is rather inkstained, neither so soft that it spends all day in a glove nor so hard that it does much work without one. On the back of her hand, between her thumb and forefinger is the slightest freckling of pale circular scars- some kind of burn, there now forever.

Her hand, shaking his, stops very abruptly but doesn't release him. Instead, her grip tightens. Wysteria's attention swivels toward the collar of his clothes where last that little glinting dark eye was seen staring.

"Would you really?"