Etraya Info/Inbox

[repaintress]

"Allo. This is Clea Dessendre. Speak."

Age: 29

Height: 5'9" (179 cm)

First Impressions/Things Characters Would Notice - Click to Open

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Etraya Specific Information - Click to Open

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[ornithologist]

[ It's not the first time he sees her through the surveillance network that he decides to introduce himself, or even the third or the fifth. Harold doesn't routinely monitor the library cameras -- he does have other things to do, and he's set up a rudimentary program to alert him of signs of violence or conflict -- but when he stumbles across the scathing commentary left on the rather amateur pieces on display in the art exhibition room, he goes back to his desk and pulls up the feed archive.

Harold runs a facial recognition algorithm for footage she's appeared elsewhere in, and then scans through it all at high speed, eyebrows quirking. She's otherwise a respectful patron, just one with incisive views on art, apparently. Ones that are well-informed, too, based on the content and the amount of time she spends actively studying in the visual arts section.

He decides to leave a note instead, very politely worded and in elegant script, requesting that art critics keep their comments to themselves. She retaliates by leaving excessive praise which Harold has no trouble reading as sarcastic. He almost laughs, but he's not a very expressive person, so it's just a ripple of humor flowing through him as a welcome reprieve.

That's when he decides he should introduce himself at an opportune moment, and when one comes days later, he makes his way down from his secret residence on the second floor to the art room, planning to make the encounter seem like happenstance. No need to disclose the discreet surveillance he has set up. As far as Harold's concerned, information flows in and not out.

He wanders into the room and then stops short like he's surprised to see someone already there. He's an older gentleman who merits the word dapper, but with a personal aesthetic laid over it: three-piece suit, but the waistcoat is tastefully of a different color and pattern, the tie and pocket square both different as well, contrasting but not too contrasting. It's summer, so the fabric is a light fine-weave linen for the suit and cotton for everything else, and it's clearly, absolutely bespoke. To a discerning eye it may even be noticeable that it's a European style and not an American one, despite the banal American accent Harold speaks with. ]

Excuse me. I have to ask -- might you be our local art critic?

[repaintress]

[ Clea is concentrating, leaning over the large table where she's unfurled an oversized art book and is currently examining one of the works of Jackson Pollock, eyes roaming the organized chaos in front of her with a look of unabashed interest. Also on the table, albeit pushed to the periphery, are a small stack of three books on Abstract Impressionism as well as Clea's own sketchbook. The sketchbook is a paltry thing, scavenged from one of Etraya's local stores and far from her usual standards. Nevertheless, the work on the pages displays talent - Clea is beginning to adapt and incorporate influences from after her time to her work. Currently on the visible page is the beginnings of what is labeled a self-portrait, though its Art Informel inspired style makes it rather abstract and difficult to identify by eye alone. There are also several notes in a hand Harold would recognize - apparently the woman is as harsh on her own work as others' as delicate letters excise the portrait, declaring it 'too derivative' and savaging her own use of color blocks and attempts at texture, ripping the sketch apart for its lack of cohesion.

Gracefully returning to an impeccable sitting position, the woman's eyes shift over to the man who's interrupted her, not bothering to hide her open assessment. He's quite well put together, and shows an eye for details, though he's closer to her parents' age than her own. The voice is incongruous with his appearance, but even the Americans occasionally produce someone of taste. ]

Yes.

[ She sees no reason to deny it, as she is not in the least ashamed of her actions. Clea's presentation is less deliberate than the man's; she's cloaked herself in loose linens that still somehow come together to create a sense of effortless, understated beauty in contrast to his own definitively tailored look. The outfit of a working artist, who needs to be able to move - a look reinforced by the drops of paint on her off-white shirt.

When she speaks, her French accent contrasts with his own, refined and exact with her words. ]

Your students will never improve if they do not receive honest feedback, monsieur.

[ Pure encouragement is for young children. ]

[ornithologist]

[ Something about the French accent is just completely unsurprising. Harold is vaguely amused again at the suggestion that they're his students, both because teacher seems to be a role everyone likes placing him in and because the idea that he's a good enough artist to teach anyone is wildly unfounded. But he remains composed, just a measured sort of openness indicating he isn't disapproving or scornful. ]

They're really not students of any kind, and certainly not mine. The intent was only to encourage residents to do something meaningful with their time between missions.

[ He would shrug, but he's not physically capable of it with his spinal injury; he stands stiffly as it is. ]

And there's a dreadful lack of art here otherwise, so I thought something was better than nothing, [ he adds. ]

[repaintress]

If something is worth doing, it is worth doing well and trying to improve oneself.

[ Otherwise, what is the point? Still, she takes his meaning. They are not students, which means if they want to waste their potential, that's their decision. Nobody is responsible for pushing them to do otherwise. Clea turns in her seat to give the man her full attention, resting one arm on the table and the other on the back of the chair. ]

How very altruistic of you.

[ Not that she thinks the man is wrong. If the people here are to do anything, what is more worthy of their attention than art? Clea understands the man's concern, though she still thinks it's overblown: Surely, they aren't actual children, only beginners. Are they not used to being critiqued in life? They'll need to get used to it at some point. ]

I don't disagree, but if that's your solution you must be very hard up for aesthetic stimulation, monsieur. You have my sympathies.

It's horrid. I want to find whomever designed that apartment building and forcibly revoke their architectural credentials.

[ And don't get her started on the towers. ]

[ornithologist]

[ Harold absolutely refuses to admit that he does know of some actual art in Etraya, because it's all in Hannibal Lecter's house and he will not be returning there or giving that man a moment's breath in his absence. Also, he prominently featured Leda and the Swan, which is about as tasteless as a tasteful art gallery can get. At least in Harold's opinion. There's no need to tell someone new about that horrendous man.

Instead he's left helplessly smiling just a bit at her obvious offense toward Etraya's architecture. Harold is usually the one playing that role in the conversation, and having it turned on him is surprisingly endearing. He hobbles over with a blatant limp to stand beside the table so she doesn't have to twist in her seat so much to talk. ]

It's quite a disappointment compared to New York, [ he agrees. ] I've gone from being inundated with aesthetic stimulation, as it were, to a veritable drought.

We had some original Pollocks on display in our museums, for example. [ Harold nods toward the large glossy book she's left open. ] He made most of his works in residence at New York before his death.

[repaintress]

[ Clea honors the man with her full attention. She regards him thoughtfully, taking her time and clearly assessing him, not hiding that she's doing so in the least. That there is a decision that must be made. And finally, after several long moments, Clea reaches and pulls out the chair next to hers. A silent invitation to both comfort and a longer discussion.

She sighs, a sign of the utmost agreement.]

Monsieur, I resided in Paris. If you are enduring a drought, I am stranded alone in the deepest Sahara.

[ There is no Louvre. No Opera National. Nothing of any important here. The closest thing she has to home has, oddly enough, turned out to be the catacombs. While full of ambiance and aesthetic merit, they're a far cry from having institutes of actual culture. Instead, she must make do with toddler art displays and books.

One of her hands runs across the page reverently as he talks about the original Pollacks. What a different experience that would be. The air ripples and suddenly the painting in the book comes to life, drips of paint flowing around the picture for a moment, demonstrating the different layers of cohesion in what appears to be chaos, before returning to their places and becoming static once more. ]

American art is a curious thing. Your people produce either derivative swill with no aesthetic or artistic merit or some of the world's most innovative works.

[ Americans didn't like to think, but on the occasion they did, their thoughts were quite expansive. ]

[ornithologist]

[ The way she acts like engaging in conversation with him deliberately is a major concession is amusing, and Harold is truly hard up for conversation of this type, so he duly takes the offered seat.

He glances down as she places her hand on the book and starts in surprise at the movement of the brush strokes themselves on the page. Harold has never seen anything like that before -- but he has been in Etraya long enough not to be completely unmoored. Immediately, he pushes back. ]

Let's not pretend French art is less derivative. We may speak different languages and have different history, but ultimately the best art is about the human condition, which is universal. If we didn't all draw from one another, that would be wasted potential. There's no shame in being influenced.

[ If art is orphaned from its prior cultural history, isn't that a loss rather than a sign of skill?

Harold is inarguably intrigued by what she'd done, regardless. ] May I ask how you did that with the book?

[repaintress]

[ Rather than be dissuaded, an inner light shines in Clea when the man pushes back against her. Some minute percentage of formality eases in her bearing, and the artist leans toward him with a fierce light in her eyes, ready to defend and expand on her position with an openly pleased smile on her face. If she were of the feline persuasion, her tail would be quivering.

Yes. Finally. Someone who isn't him with informed artistic opinions. ]

Let us also not pretend there's no difference between influence and derivation. A work is derivative if there is no addition, if the artist does not add their own touch and soul to the work. If I were to render one of Pollock's pieces as a Canvas in direct translation, that would be entirely derivative. The line between the two is the thought and craft of the artist. Nor do I agree with you that art must be universal to be of the highest value. Art can expand the human condition as well as reflect it, and often the most expansive art has the most niche audiences. That does not impact its worth.

[ Though, in the spirit of having a true discussion, Clea must concede at least one point in the stranger's favor. ]

I will grant that we on occasion also produce derivative slop. Most of the Impressionists and the Pastoralists are clerks in the garb of an artist and barely worth considering.

[ What she'd done? Ah. Yes. She's going to need to get used to explaining herself. That's going to become tiring. Clea holds her hand over the pages again, drawing Chroma to her and letting it ripple, a distortion in the air above the pages, resuming the movement. ]

I'm a Paintress. I create immersive works. This is a technique sometimes used to help us understand how a piece will flow in motion or through time before we go to the work of constructing a Canvas.

[ It's common to sketch out or sculpt ideas and use Chroma to move them. Without anything to attach to, it doesn't last, and there's no immersion, but it helps when considering matters such as how a creature should move, or how starlight should shine. ]

There's clear cohesion in these pieces, layered on top of one another. I am trying to examine them so I understand.

[ornithologist]

[ Oh, she does want to have a whole debate about it -- seems quite clearly desperate for intellectual stimulation. Harold can relate, even if art isn't his scholarly pursuit of choice. He's an appreciator but no critic or artist himself. He forms opinions, of course, but nothing like the opinions he forms on someone's internet privacy and security practices.

Really, everyone should be using Blackberry.

She explains what she'd done and his eyebrows go up and up, impressed and thoroughly taken in with the concept. ]

That's quite the skill, Madame. [ He uses the French inflection in deference to her own way of addressing him. Harold's French isn't perfect and he doesn't speak much of it, but he is someone who pedantically cares about the proper pronunciation of things, so he's far better than the average English speaker. ]

I take your point about influence and derivation. [ He doesn't mind acknowledging when someone's found a flaw in his perspective. ] That's certainly true. I will say that I find niche works like what you speak of to be more like a window into our commonality, the way light reflected through a prism can look different at various angles but in all cases is still light.

[ Harold may not be a visual artist, but he is exceedingly well-spoken. Even in casual conversation there's a deliberate care to how he picks his words. ]

If I may make a suggestion, I believe Pollock was influenced by Janet Sobel, who is the one who truly originated drip painting in the contemporary style, as well as the lack of orientation to the piece. It's referred to as all-over painting, meaning you may turn it on its side and not find an up or down.

Meanwhile, Clea: I have a telegraph in my ear! He'd be so horrified by her tech habits

[repaintress]

Thank you - it is indeed. It will be some time before I can create a work here, though I hope to in the future.

[Painting is a remarkable skill. Clea is proud of her abilities, there is no reason to falsely shrink into herself and deny them. To deny her talents would be to deny the hours she's spent learning her craft as well as the hours her parents had spent in teaching her, lessons they'd honed after years of their own practice. She will not deny their brilliance.

As he has done her the honor of considering her criticism, of weighing it and evaluating it on its own merits, Clea does likewise, turning his words and argument over in her mind, fingers absently tracing the drops of paint in the photograph. What it would be to see the pieces in person, to see the weight of the drops standing in such contrast to even the most unconventional brushwork.

They could not have known these pieces would be made. Even the most forward of thinkers would not imagine it: paintings without strokes? Without one of the foundational aspects of the medium? And yet, they exist.

The future contains multitudes they cannot yet imagine. Something in that thought loosens a knot Clea's been holding in her heart. Some of the ever-present tension in her bearing lessens.]

What a poetic metaphor, monsieur. It conveyed your intentions quite clearly, and I cannot find a point of disagreement other than to say others are less open minded than yourself.

[ There is nothing sarcastic or backhand about the observation. It is meant as a neutral evaluation of his character. For good and for ill, he seems to hold an openness to experience that many people would not. Many people prefer the familiar, the banality of known beauty.

Picking up her pen, Clea flips to a blank page in the notebook and writes down the name 'Janet Sobel' in fluid, impeccable script. Then, next to the name: 'All-over painting'. Apparently their creativity had not extended to the naming of their movement. Though the blame for that might lie with the academics. ]

Am I to assume, then, that you're the proprietor of this establishment?

text | un: ulysses

[restingstitchface]

Well, someone's been speaking freely. I have barely a fascination for your relationship with that man. But people here have a habit of hoarding information. So call this a friendly intervention. Or a favour if that suits you.

In any case, I can demonstrate how to make your conversations private. Reply at your leisure

[repaintress]

[ She had been speaking freely. He isn't incorrect. Speaking freely encourages others to do the same. Nevertheless, he's correct that she hadn't thought about onlookers.

An idiotic mistake. ]

We both know it's a favor.

[ There's no need to mince words or bother with niceties; they'd established that. ]

How moronic did I look?

[ It happened. She can't change that. But she might be able to make it work for her. ]

[restingstitchface]

Less than it made you appear emotionally vulnerable. But it made you interesting, which is equally unwelcome.

[repaintress]

As I said, moronic.

Why would you consider that unwelcome?

[ Does she agree? She's not certain. ]

What of it do you believe would interest others?

[ If she is to owe him a favor, she wants payment herself. Questions will do. ]

[restingstitchface]

[The payment is teaching her to speak privately on the phone. But he understands the psychology of a bonus.]

People enjoy solving a puzzle. They provide psychological order to the chaos of life. Perhaps I could summarise it as you are giving them mystery for free.

[repaintress]

I understand.

When you want your favor, ask.

[restingstitchface]

Of course.

Until next time, then.

[Instructions on how to private one's communications are promptly sent over.]

telepathic phone

[sophielicious]

(Now that she knows what Clea's brain feels like? Super easy to pinpoint her.

Talking straight into her mind.)

/This is close enough to my world, so I know everything there is here. I'm taking you clubbing, so we need to get you a nice outfit. What do you think?/

[repaintress]

[ Oh, that's... Clea isn't sure if she'd consider this form of communication unpleasant, but it's certainly unfamiliar. It feels like her brain is itching, and it reminds her of Painting the thoughts of creatures - being in their mind while it's forming.

She doesn't answer immediately, taking advantage of the 'phone' to look up some information about clubbing before she answers. ]

/I think that's an excellent idea. I have a company credit card and apparently they collect monthly, so we should have free rein./

[ Since they won't be here to have to worry about the bill. Some pleasures are near universal, and one of them is alcohol and dancing. A match truly made in heaven. ]

[sophielicious]

/Go to the nearest Channel store. I'll be right there./

[repaintress]

/Understood./

[ The map function of the phone (why is it called a telephone when it doesn't appear to be for calling people?) is quite useful and Clea is rather used to navigating large cities, so she arrives in good time, with a shopping bag already slung over one shoulder and wearing the most interesting outfit she could construct from the closet she'd been provided. Which could be worse, but could also be better.

Which she intends to remedy. Upon catching sight of Sophie, Clea nods in greeting. ]

[sophielicious]

(She's home, or close enough. Things she knows, is more than familiar with, brands, cars, places, her country, so forth. The million voices and feelings bouncing around her brain, background noise comforting in comparison to the can-hear-a-pin-drop silence in Etraya. Her sanity is restored, to say the very least.

She arrives in the shop dressed as only she would, extremely extra. Sunglasses up as soon as she sees Clea, fluttering her fingers as a greeting.)

Hey, girlie!

[repaintress]

[ It's immediately apparent Sophie is in a better mood. There's an ease to her bearing that had been missing in their previous encounter. Clea herself cannot decide if this place is more or less comfortable than Etraya. It's more overwhelming, and giving the average person an automobile is a clear mistake, but there is a comforting anonymity to large cities. To be subsumed in people going about their business and to be able to meld into the background.

In Etraya, they are known whether they want to be or not.

Clea smiles slightly. ]

Madmoiselle.

[ She turns to look in the shop window with a discerning eye. It appears acceptable. Much more so than the place she'd gone to earlier. ]

My legs are my best feature. We should accentuate them.

After this, makeup, non?

[sophielicious]

Welcome to my kinda-not-really-but-close-enough home, chérie.

(Not that she knows more than that in French, very basic words, but alas. She's taking Clea in her looped arm to dive into the shop, her free hand mindlessly picking things from the racks to have her try.)

Yeah, I'm taking you to Sephora and then... Well, who did they put you with? Or are you alone in here?

[repaintress]

How does that feel?

[ She's pleased enough to be dragged through the store, adding her own pieces to Sophie's suggestions while vetoing others, and occasionally holding up a garment or accessory that catches her eye up to Sophie if Clea determines it would not suit herself. The two women have quite different color palettes, so if an item does not suit Clea, it would Sophie. ]

An older man posing as my uncle and an adolescent they've decided is my ward.

[ Clea isn't able to keep the slight distaste from her voice, disapproval stemming from two equal annoyances: The first that they'd done this without her consent as she is quite weary of being expected to care for teenagers. The second that Aurora and Echo clearly recognize that children are children and yet still subject them to these 'missions'.]

She's not of an age that would require consistent monitoring. Should an adult's presence be required, she can contact me.

[ Freedom is good for adolescents, especially ones that want to shrink in on themselves. She'd run all over Paris at the girl's age with no available method of contact at all. Clea had her location information and a phone number. That's more than sufficient for a girl of that age. ]

[sophielicious]

Like I'm going to not be bored for once in months.

(Clea chose to be friends with Sophie, who's very high speed, so the answer to her questions come to her brain as she doesn't want to lose track of the aisle they're walking through, nor the main conversation.

How does it feel? God, she missed it. Comfort, capitalism, entertainment aside, Etraya feels exactly like being in a small classroom during an exam. Every little thing, so heightened, so obvious in the telepathic airways. Here, millions, just how she expected. The headache she had when she first arrived is worth it.

Interesting, though.

Not the people, but the situation that annoys Clea about it.)

Who is it?

[repaintress]

[ There are few people with whom Clea can bear shopping, and it is a delight to find that Sophie shares her predilection for both efficiency and thoroughness as they move through the aisles with purpose, easily judging what is and isn't worth their time. Clea fingers a hem, 'hmms' disapprovingly, and moves on. ]

Etraya does lack stimulation.

[ Despite the variety of architecture, there isn't much variety in shopping, and with the low number of inhabitants, Clea often feels as though she is living in a quaint seaside village. ]

I do not know if the name they assigned her is her actual name, as is the case with myself, but she is called 'Noelle'. She's quite timid.

[ Her nature reminds Clea of her younger sister. Who needs to learn both to stand up for herself and to exercise better judgement. ]

[sophielicious]

(It's the wonders of being able to have several types of simultaneous communication at hand. Some of the outfits Sophie picks are also for her own. Her best feature is the hourglass shape of her body, she's thin and she's taller than average at 5'6", 105lbs. Unlike Emma Frost, whose DNA she was copied from, she has no boobjob or other alterations — so, style and making sure her shape is visible along with the long legs she has tend to be the go-to.

Etraya, ugh.)

You have no idea, though. No parties, hardly any people, not a lot of shops, and I come from the largest populated city in this country. We have what, 100 people in Etraya? I can hear everyone in this city in my head. Imagine how I was going nuts.

(All the telepaths must be rejoicing. She's literally the weakest one.)

Don't know her. Good luck being a single mom, though.

[repaintress]

Is that still New York City?

[ In her era, that is the most populated city in the United States, more populated than even Paris, though Sophie's complaints also ring true to Clea. It isn't simply the lack of shops, it's the lack of life. To exist in a large city is to constantly encounter novelty, to be able to locate a plethora of the world's pleasures and peoples. Etraya is naught but a hollow shell, its diversity surface level.

There are no gatherings of interesting minds, no creative inspirations. Nothing. It is akin to living in a snow globe.

Clea holds a pair of earrings up and tilts her head to the side, considering. Does she love them or hate them? The best pieces ride the line between the two. She puts them in the group for trying. ]

You have my sympathies - the constant animal voices are beginning to grate on my nerves.

[ As any place sufficiently away from people and automobiles is also used as such by the animal denizens of the city, who lack any sense of boundaries. A step away to check her phone almost immediately results in several food requests. ]

Luckily, I am not her actual mother. And there is little a girl of that age wants less than a chaperone.

[ At least, that had been Clea's temperament at that age. She'll see to the girl's physical wellbeing if necessary, but anything beyond that is not her responsibility. ]

[sophielicious]

That's right, yeah. Technically, I was made in London, but eh, it's not like I have ever lived there or anything.

(Made and shipped straight to Xavier's, with a vague backstory and blockers to avoid anyone ever wondering where the Stepford Cuckoos came from, including them. Not clones, quintuples, orphaned by... Whatever. It was not a masterpiece of backstory writing, but it hardly mattered when they just made everyone buy it unconsciously.

Alas. Home, you know? At least now they're by the changing rooms, and Sophie hands Clea the pile of clothes she has hanging from her arm so she can separate what's hers and what's Clea's.)

That's the power you got?

(Sounds hellish to a woman who asked her how does Sophie cope with people. To have one more category of input, if one will.)

I got my mentee as a son, which, I guess it's fine. I already put myself in that position anyway.

[repaintress]

You aren't missing anything. London is dreadful - a dreary city populated almost entirely by urchins and people without an ounce of taste.

[ Nothing cheers Clea quite like offering her opinions on the English. She holds a dress up, wrinkling her nose at the harsh lighting of the dressing room. ]

What is the lighting situation at a dance club?

[ Outfits must be chosen in accordance with their events. Which means considering both how they will appear in situ and their overall character. Which should be baldly erotic without sacrificing taste. Erotic by her standards, not those of the men looking at her. They're simple enough that their only concern will likely be the amount of skin showing. ]

Yes. I can hear the animals speak. Did they provide you with extra abilities, or was that an addition only for those of us lacking?

[ Though she's not certain animal communication is much more useful than Painting.

A mentee? Clea wouldn't have expected that. She's starting to suspect Sophie enjoys people more than she lets on. ]

You have patience, then. I am a poor teacher. Is he also a telepath?

[sophielicious]

Oh, God, you are a born hater.

(Which earns her points. Sophie likes London, but she too is a hater of so many different things. Understood, enabled, appreciated.

And while there should be no surprise at the question in place, she remembers that Clea is not from the same time period or experience level as herself. Which means she just sends a mental image of a generic club into her brain, dim lights, colors, dancing, not to be confused to where they will go because she isn't totally sure how it looks like on the inside, but this should suffice.)

Not me, no. I mean, they might have other powered people, but not me. I'm just your ol' former hivemind telepath, telekinetic, diamond-shaped girl. Is that proving useful, or is it just dreary? Are their conversations at least enriching or just plain what you'd expect?

(Thank God for that. She barely uses the latter, is shit at the second, we don't need a forth.)

I don't, not really. The person I was cloned from loves teaching, children, and mentoring, I'm just here trying on her shoes for a little while — and, uh, no. He's got blasts coming out of his eyes, and he just so happens to be a whole leader for us back home and also, uh, my mum's ex. The one here is a different version, a teen, not what we are used to and I guess he needs me, so I'm trying my best.

[repaintress]

What use is the approval of a person who dispenses it freely to all who would ask?

[ In short: Clea is absolutely a hater. Unapologetically so. If a place, person, or idea does not wish to earn her ire or disappointment, it always has the option of not being terrible. Something she doubts the English will ever achieve.

The picture in her mind is disorienting - it's so clearly not her vision. There's not enough detail, and the impression Sophie takes from an environment is different from Clea. But it isn't an unwelcome disorientation. It answers her question and allows her to ponder for a moment: What range of imagery inhabits the human mind? How could a piece of art represent a single space seen through 50 different minds?

Clea uses the image to sort through the clothing, opting for more shimmer than she would normally. In a poorly-lit environment, the effect will be enthralling rather than overwhelming. Taking a dress off the rack, she pulls it over her head.

It's disappointing that they do not have time for a visit to a decent tailor. ]

Both. The conversations are quite dreary, but animals are fairly easy to bribe if you take care to find ones that can understand what you require of them. Small girls stare at me a fair amount.

[ Which is by far the least objectionable group of people to have do so, so Clea isn't upset. She is, however, confused. ]

What is a 'Disney princess?'

[ The situation Sophie describes makes her own family look simple. Clea doesn't envy her. She 'hmms', a verbal sign that she's listening as Sophie can't see her nod with the wall between their dressing rooms, sitting to begin trying on shoes. ]

An admirable position. Be careful you do not allow yourself to be drained dry.

[ Although the advice is verbally curt and blunt, it's accompanied by flashes of memory: Shaking hands, full of worry. Glimpses of Clea seeing herself in tall, ornately decorated mirrors with visible bags under her eyes.

The advice is well meant. Once someone needs you, they tend not to care about the cost of their neediness. She is growing fond of Sophie and wants the younger woman to care for herself as well. ]