Lucy's lip is in her mouth. She had something in mind to say, but now that he's looking at her again she'd rather say nothing. Alternate possibilities scramble and spin through her head, like scanning, and she's not happy with any of them. But there are no sigils to pull back from a word.

She sets her glass on the table near the couch for someone else to take care of, then stands primly, smoothing the front of her dress, adjusting the straps on her shoulders.

"Maybe we can meet again," she says, looking up at him with hesitance. "Like Nightmorning. I could come out at day."