Then that was it. Agreement. Assent. To do it the way it must be done. To do it the way it should be. Would she have been amenable, stood she in his shoes, to such an expectation as the one she demanded? Best not to think on such things. Comfort in the shadow of her own hypocrisy had become a necessary tool for survivability, after all. "I want you to consider the role I proposed — not now, of course, but in the future. I want you to spend this time finding yourself, and if you discover something in the ruins of Snowstill that leads you in such a way, to not hesitate.
"Myrken Wood wants for good souls in positions of necessity. And those good souls," she said, jabbing a thumb against her own collarbone, "are in desperate want of honesty, fairness, and virtue."
He drank, and justified it all on the whisper of Ser Malaroth. The hint of sarcasm in Gahald's voice turned her ever-present frown into a flat smile. Memories emerged from the rubble of him, and whether or not they were false mattered nothing; she listened, shining-eyed, and accepted them as his truth. The wine was not good; the wine did not need to be good.
Perfect wine for Gloria Wynsee.
She took the bottle back, took another swig, sucked air through her teeth. "And stop," the woman insisted, "calling me Miss Wynsee. I am Gloria. I like it far better, and I am neither above you in station nor below you in status. And there is only one way to affirm such a thing—"
She tucked the bottle under her elbow. Then she brushed her hand off on her skirt and spit unceremoniously into her palm. She remembered, and it hurt. She extended the hand out to him.
"Friends?" Gloria said. "As long as you will have me."