Pansy's thank you -- twice -- puts something bashful into the slope of Monet's shoulders. She seems awfully concerned with closing the jewelry box and putting it away, though she does turn, wave her hand dismissively as Pansy asks what she might do in return. The movement doesn't exactly match the tiny, pleased little grin that flashes on her face as she works the clasp and closes the drawer.

It's hard to say what Monet had been seeking, exactly, by gifting Pansy anything at all. She's only realizing in this moment that perhaps she did it for no reason whatsoever, except that Pansy should have something pretty. Your finger prints will be all over my look. She'll have to remember those words for her calligraphy journal later.

"Don't worry about me," Monet demurs politely. She orients toward Pansy again, pushing up to seat herself atop the surface of the desk, and smirks. "I've been all planned for weeks."

"You can stay, though. If you want," she adds, somewhat hesitantly. "Talk. My hair will take ages to put up properly."