She chuckles softly. "You are an artist, Dorian? Or perhaps a poet?" Pretending all innocence. Then, almost as an afterthought, "It's Miss, by the way. Not that it matters, of course, as we've dispensed with that."

She shows her left hand, ringless. Her nails are short and well-manicured, bare of polish, and the backs of her fingers are flecked with tiny scars here and there—from burns, perhaps, or nicks from a blade.