From down the hallway, a more familiar (and fixed) voice— “Coupe?” And then, a little bit louder, as if she intended to have said: “Commander Coupe? Are you there?” very briskly, having never at the best of times paid a great deal of attention to the suggestion that she consider the commander's schedule.

The spirit who is not Thaïs widens her eyes in a way that mirrors Petrana's to an almost uncomfortable degree, eerie in the momentary similarity over the shifting planes of her face, and she clasps a hand against the door as if she might hold it closed.

She couldn't, of course. She isn't anything so firm.

Not-Thaïs straightens her dress, and it holds its shape for the time it takes her to brush it smooth. Then straightens her shoulders, rises a little until she's so tall as Wren herself. Sets her mouth, like she's screwing up her courage, and—so sweetly, sudden, a half-turn: “How do I look?”