Yseult slips fingers through the handle, giving Flint the corner of a grateful smile before she drifts away to take a seat, settling into one of the armchairs opposite, and crossing legs at the knee beneath her emerald skirt. Wherever she's been hiding since the resurrection of Granitefell it has had better weather--instead of fading with the onset of fall her tan is deeper than ever, freckles all but subsumed by it, and set off by the crisp white of her blouse and pale grey shawl wrapped round her shoulders.

She turns the cup in her hand and lifts it. "It must be someone very bad, to have brought snacks. The Divine, perhaps? The Empress?"