[ A mercy, that she arrived after the commune's fall. It would have been a place of comfort for her, a too-familiar environment that would have driven her madness to heights unseen before — made her a creature of the Shepherd, with all the longing she has within her to be told where her place is. How she is to be, now that she has fled from the ribbons and chains that once bound and led her like a sweet, obedient little hound.

Her smile, toward him, is a small thing. Folded like a secret note, as her dark lashes flutter over her pale irises, nigh-maidenly in the way she is unable to hold the connection between them. ]

I asked for it, properly.

[ A flicker of guilt. She polishes off her own glass with the toss of her head, foolhardy and driven in that moment to beat August to the inevitable conclusion of the cocktail of substances that will sing throughout them. As she sets the pretty glass aside, her expression becomes a little apologetic; brows knitted, mouth tugged into a firm little line. The admission is both easy and difficult: ] It was a trifle, to pay them the price they asked for it.

Cast it from your mind, Mister Moreau. You have been generous enough — offering your guidance and instruction. I shan't ask for that now, not with the cameras upon us. Are you willing to talk of your time here, in the manor? Affections you harbor? Difficulties you faced?