"Bastien," she replies, with a similarly different smile: warmer, wider, curled at the corners in amusement no longer hidden. She carries a bottle of wine and two cups, pewter handles dangling from her fingers, clinking together as she lifts them in show.

She agreed for the ease and the privacy, but she's curious about the press, too, especially now she's seen that it actually exists. She vaguely recalls mention of printing when they'd met previously, but she's never been much for allowing a mission to be waylaid by small talk when companionable silence will do. But this isn't a mission, so she makes her way over to fold herself to a seat in a clear space nearby him, a single letter--R--scooped up and handed over. Cups are set on the floor, and the wine uncorked.

"What actually brings you here?"