There is. A lot. That could. Be said.

There is. A lot. That should. Not. Be said.

No change of expression registers on her face as Mira accepts the furstick. She [i]does[/i] offer a deep, sweeping bow that very nearly causes her to spill out of her suit. Is that an unfortunate coincidence attached to a gesture of thanks? Is it meant to be teasing? Flaunting? If so, for which pair of eyes? Or, is she simply testing Seven Quetzal's sincerity? When she lifts out of her pose, her movement is as graceful and fluid as her eyes. There's a frown fighting with a smirk on her lips. And she turns away. 

She tosses the furstick up into the air above her, not bother to watch it twirling through the air. It could land anywhere. She could let it fall or hand it back. But she catches it with a deft swipe of her hand as she walks away. She lifts that same hand to wave over her shoulder as she goes, twirling the stick between her fingers.

"Whispered Promise," she calls out without turning her head. Her voice is high and clear to be heard over the din of mealtime, "You have a right to that much, Seven Quetzal."

Because, indeed, she was right. This is not difficult information to acquire. And yet, it is better to be handed the information than to be forced to take it for yourself. A trade of star names, between cultures. And maybe, just maybe, this second name would shake some memory of a news article loose in that sweet little brain. Maybe it would draw a real reaction out of Smokeless Jade Fires, when the goddess had done such an admirable job to this point of keeping her presence... ah, "hidden". Maintaining the veil of propriety, at any rate. But if it manages anything, it is not immediate. And Mira does not wait around to see. 

There is. A lot. That could. Be said.
There is. A lot. That should. Not. Be said.

Touch up her spots. Of all the things she could have suggested. She picked the one that. Well. She picked. The element. She'd assumed they'd have in common. After all, it is not as if this girl kept beauty products on hand in the off chance she met another cat who needed them. Unreasonable assumption. Too rare a brand. Too... nngh. But still. But still. As if it wasn't the first thing she tried. As if she hadn't practiced with 'touching up her spots' every day until she had become a professional in the art. As if that hadn't been the thing that had pushed her into fashion in the first place. And as if. As if any brand or style or degree of expertise had been enough to cover her disfiguration. 

The mistake, in fact, had been trying to cover it up at all. The better she got at hiding it the more the stares and muttered comments followed her, and the nastier they became. One thing to be ugly. Another thing entirely to dare to fix it. She'd had her eyes treated as a response to that feedback. That, of course, made her even more controversial. Not universally despised. Merely a magnet for strong opinions. Far worse. Unignorable. An enigma. Mysterious. Controversial. Poison. 

And if beauty. If beauty. Were measured. By the heart, then... yes. Inevitable conclusion. For an insatiable heart. Like hers. That demands so much. And gives so little. That forms such tangled nets. Such knotted nests. And wanders away. Expecting things to stay in stasis. Until she is no longer bored. She is. If anything. Isn't she? The things she does. Make her. Far uglier on the inside. 

She could be insulted. Should be insulted. Or at least hurt. There are. Many things. That could. Be said. And yet. She does not say them. Thoughts swirl inside her mind and do not find the necessary purchase to complete. She casts them off into the void, these imperfect creatures. 

Because. Her heart is swelling. Because. As she walks away. She is on the verge of real tears. Because. This Seven Quetzal. Mainlander though she is. Responded to her testing and her teasing. By opening herself up and reaching out for Mirror. To blindly touch this thorny heart. Her smile was something. Truly incredible. Beauty enough to spark no lust. No curiosity, in fact. And yet. To make her feel the attempt. Instead of the impossibility of her success. Language. The spark of someone who might speak to her. Who [i]did[/i] speak to her.

The numbers flit through her head. Lock in place. It was good she stuck around that extra moment. Good that the silly girl lifted her breasts. Ha. In solidarity. It was good that she turned in place. The way she had. All of it was good. Because Mirror had her measurements. Enough to compare them against official biometrics. Video data.

In fact. In actual fact. Mayze Szerpaws had four dresses on commission. Time would tell where inspiration went.