Kijani noticed Mr. Croil relax a bit as he started to talk about his fields. No wonder, if she was in charge of something so wonderful and grand, she'd want to talk about it too. She was glad to hear that she could have some apples, as well. She hadn't had any with the skin on in years. Her mother had said the biting and crunching was not at all ladylike, and so she'd been forced to eat her fruit in small slices, with a knife and fork, ever since. Embarrassingly enough, she could feel her mouth filling at the thought of biting into the sweet delicious treat, feeling the glossy red skin snap under her teeth.

She wasn't surprised as he told her that people would be quiet around her. She was used to it in the city. Her family wasn't the most powerful or wealthy, but they were still in enough circles of note to be noticed, and held higher than most. People spoke differently around her, as if they were afraid. What that fear was, she didn't quite understand fully. Something about upsetting people with power. She honestly couldn't stand it. No one spoke to her like she was just a woman. No, she was always and forever a Ryane, destined to walk and talk and be a Ryane, until she married and took some man's name but even then, she'd be a Ryane as well.

The thought of marriage triggered a twist in her stomach, an ice cold pang that spread through her body. Mr. Croil's mention of bringing trouble only made her colder, and she started to twist her hands in endless motion, the silk gloves doing little to stop her. Her eyes had gone a bit dim, and distant, and she barely realized that her host had stopped speaking. Inside, she was simply begging herself: not now, not now, not in front of people. Her hands were starting to hurt but she was somehow detached from the pain. She inhaled a breath that shook somewhat and tried to smile. “No trouble at all, sir.” 

That was, after all, exactly why she'd left.