She drifts after him with the mild affect of politeness which showing just about anyone out should merit, though her smile as it flashes briefly over the prospect of cheating is more crooked than appealing and potentially more genuine for it.

"Enjoy them. The man's a true artist of conspiracy."

With a flick of the wrist, the door is unceremoniously drawn open for him. Lest he escape from the lion's den unscathed, however (or due to the old habitual inability to leave a loose thread unpulled)—

"You look well in it, by the way," she says, her sharp cheek set jauntily against the edge of the door and expression made up entirely of roguish eyebrows. "The coat."