As she crunched into another piece of bruschetta, Quinn closed her eye and let Cyril's words wash over her and felt a leaden ball of tension in her stomach that she hadn't known she had disappear to be replaced with that sunny feeling of pride. Pride, because she'd saved people. Pride, because people felt [i]safe[/i] with her around. And if they felt safer with her there, it meant she was finally starting to live up to the title [i]Ablaze.[/i]

She shook her head, flicking the last of the bewilderment away. She didn't fully smile, not really; but a faint hint of one lingered around the edges of her lips.

Her voice was quiet as she replied, "[color=ffe63d]Thank you.[/color]"

And of course, that was the perfect time for the maître de to come back to the table, and for Quinn to realize with a cold shock down her spine that though she'd [i]opened[/i] the menu, she'd [i]read[/i] almost none of it, and now he was looking at her, because it was obviously her turn to order. Five minutes ago she might've shrank down and gave a tiny "[color=ffe63d]sorry,[/color]" but she was feeling much better, all told, and so she just gave him an apologetic look and rapidly flipped through the menu, trying to settle on something as fast as she could and beating down the anxiety that tried to get in the way. Seafood, pastas, meats, poultry—ah, that looked good. And fancy. It was her first time eating at an upscale place, she reasoned; she could get something nice.

"[color=ffe63d]I think,[/color]" she started, glancing up at him and suddenly very aware that she did in fact have an accent, "[color=ffe63d]the, uh, guinea hen stuffed with fois gras and truffle?[/color]" She looked across the table at Cyril, almost as though to ask whether or not she made a good choice, but, well, the choice was made. All she could do now was see if she liked whatever [i]foie gras[/i] was. [i]"[color=ffe63d]Si'l vous plait,[/color]"[/i] she added, almost as an afterthought, hoping that she at least got the pronunciation right.