Moments like these are more dangerous to the Revolution than a thousand guard patrols. If the ab-Enkiji spent a month at work on a new marvel designed specifically to de-fang Marianne, whatever they came up with, they would still accomplish less than the sight that greets Étoile right now. 

The reaction is instant. In a flash, all thoughts of how she might exact revenge on her Janissary escorts are forgotten. The pain pulsing across her back fades to a dull background hum. Her back and shoulders straighten without conscious effort. Her legs find the strength to pretend they can carry her right now. And Marianne, with one last disdainful sniff, releases her hold on Étoile's heart and sinks deep beneath the surface to await the next night she's needed more than this absurd little star. 

It's just Étoile now. And someone's gone and turned her mouth into a desert while she was away. She doesn't answer, except to try swallowing. It takes her several attempts to get any kind of saliva flowing again. And all she does is stand there with one foot frozen in mid step and an arm tentatively reaching out as if it could clear the space between one end of the room and the other in a single gesture. She is bounding across the room and drawing backwards to flee it at the same time, and the result is that she's frozen completely in place.

Her world is the sound of Tamytha's effort filled breathing which is somehow barely audible and yet drowns out Caphtor's music at the same time. It is the sight of the sweat beading on her forehead in the pale moonlight as if she'd been caught in the rain, as though that were a thing the Annunaki allowed to happen under any circumstances. It is the feeling of pain, until it is swallowed whole by another feeling which is called guilt. She swallows again; she's getting better at it as she goes.

Her foot decides to carry her forward after all. Étoile pads softly, deeper into the room. She makes less noise than a ghost as she bounds more than steps, and then prances more than bounds closer to her Lady. Then she freezes again, a fresh statue in the middle of the room. Her hair bobs this way and that as her head darts around the room looking for something, looking for... yes, that will do. 

She trots daintily away again. Just for a moment. Just to scoop up a discarded shawl that found the floor when the evening became too hot to tolerate it. She drapes it over her shoulders, though not quite correctly. It's lopsided the way she's wearing it, so that instead of giving her an air of added modesty and decorum she looks more like a silly animal that couldn't figure out how the pretty fabric worked. Lady called for her [i]lamassie[/i], after all. And this way all her bloody marks are covered. They never happened. Do not let your heart tremble at the thought, Lady.

Étoile hops lightly from tile to tile as though she were on an obstacle course and needed to consider each leap to a new platform carefully lest she fall in some sort of hazard pit. Then she reaches the bed and dips gracefully (and gratefully) onto her knees. Her hands tremble as she takes one of Tamytha's in them and touches it to her cheek. And if this were a kinder world, she would cry now. But there are too many masks that need wearing, and the reaction passes by her face to settle inside her chest instead.

"It's me, Milady. [i]Lamassie[/i] is really here, she promises. She is so sorry for losing your pretty jacket. She is so sorry for losing your pretty veil. She is so sorry she made you worry all night when you needed her more than ever. [i]Lamassie[/i] is a bad girl, but she is here now. She promises."