Monet may not, at this very moment, be able to use her words, but she can always stand up under scrutiny. It's one of her best qualities, if you ask her.

She stares back evenly, quirking an eyebrow at Pansy as if daring her to say something else. It buys enough time: syllables fall into place, and she ponders them over the rim of her glass, swallowing down her discomfort with watery ale and grenadine. She even manages to get back some of that laughter, from a minute ago.

"God, I wasn't going to say anything that interesting," Monet says at last, placating. "I just know what to expect from you, that's all. And I like to know."