Cecilia's entire body stiffened at the sound of her cousin's voice. While at one point in her early days in the prison she had longed for visitors and human contact, Malcolm had ruined that notion for her a very long time ago. He seemed to only visit when he was bored of his prostitutes and seeking someone to torture in a different way.

"Good morning, Malcolm," Cecilia said properly, standing to greet him as he stood at her cell. Even though she dreaded Malcolm's visits, she was always civil towards him. She was a lady, after all. Her stubbornness and pride may have played a part in that as well.

It would be almost impossible to tell that the two were so closely related, seeing them there. Malcolm with his impeccable hair and luxurious clothes, while Cecilia wore a dress that amounted to no more than tattered rags and reeked of mildew. She was pale from living in the cell for so long, and her cheekbones were almost too sharp to be attractive from a lack of proper nutrition. Even in that state, she held herself like the proper heir of Alvion. Shoulders back, chin up, eyes level. Her hands were placed primly at her front, as if her dirty dress were one of the ball gowns from her previous life.

"Thank you," she responded. She had not forgotten that it was her twentieth birthday. It was the day that everyone had been waiting for, and she was no exception. "What brings you down here so early in the morning?" Her tone was conversational, but her expression was blank. There was no sign of emotion behind those blue eyes, and her lips were closed into a firm line. She had an excellent poker face.