One hand still holding the edge of her robe, Benevenuta takes the slip of paper and scans it briefly, businesslike - in the easy transition from her warm pleasantries at the door to the brisk way she considers the message in her hand, she is so much her mother's daughter. (And it is so much the Thevenets that there is nothing personal enough to warrant anything else, in a letter from mother to daughter; it isn't that sentiment has no place in their relationship, only that it has a specific place.)

"I see her point," she says, folding it again and consigning it a moment later to the fire burning low in the grate. "It is a pleasure to properly meet you. She speaks highly of you, still."