The woman at her desk when Cassian arrives — the other side of the office is not occupied, presently, but plainly in use — seems absorbed in her own thoughts, enough that the initial knock had not quite stirred her from them. She looks at him with no small surprise, an openness about it that he will certainly come to recognise as unusual; arranges her features into a more measured pleasantness with the ease of great practise as she says,

“I am. And you are, Monsieur…?”

She sounds Orlesian, so long as one is not greatly familiar with the usual cadence of native speakers; slightly too clipped, if one is, something a little more Tevene about the way she shapes her vowels and patterns her speech.

(And yet, to hear her actual accent in spoken Tevene—)