Once before in her life, she had reached what she thought had been the edge of the galaxy. At the time she'd been filled with many emotions, but the strongest among them was relief. One way or another, she'd been certain the ordeal was over. Maybe that's why she had responded to the Rift by throwing a party. 

This time all she feels is tired. And all she wants to do is stand somewhere quiet and watch the stars as she passes them by. She's out of wine to hand out anyway, and the stuff she [i]does[/i] have is pure swill. She can call herself a Praetor all she wants, but that crown stopped buying much a long time ago. 

And when even was the last time she'd [i]stopped?[/i] Done proper repairs, rested at all, or even just did [i]anything[/i] that wasn't administration, paperwork, or nearly killing herself in a fight she had no business winning? Fuck, what a stupid thought. She's not even there, doesn't even know if what she's looking for [i]is[/i] there, and even when they finally reach Gaia how stupid would she have to be to think the worst was behind her this time? 

No, she's got this one moment in a sea of constant turmoil and terror and all she can do with it is try to catch her breath. Naturally, she's wasted that moment baking croissants.

The room is filled with warmth and the smells of melting butter and rising pastry. She's been at it for hours, to the point where even after washing her hands clean they feel caked in flour and every other sticky fucking nightmare ingredient. They're all that she can taste in the air despite having not eaten any of them herself, or they would be if she hadn't just put on a pot of coffee. It's not like she'd made any mistakes; every attempt was as perfect as she knew how to make it, now that she did. It's just that she needed something better than perfect for what she wanted.

Bella sniffs the air around her coffee beans. She snatches up a large handful and grinds them to powder in her palm, setting them in a filter before deftly pouring the just-boiling water through the brown-black mass of them. Also a taught skill, which annoyed her to no end. But then, at least Dolce was interested in teaching. She'd send the rest of this to him, by way of thanks. Everything that's left after what she needed was finished.

She pours the coffee into a plain white cup. Then she sets a small bowl of sugar and a saucer of cream at exact forty-five degree angles behind it. She runs her palm across her various attempts at baking and lifts the one with the flakiest surface up to inspect it. Did she get it sufficiently crescent shaped? She frowns and sets it aside, picking through the lot four more times until one satisfies her. Onto the plate it goes. She adjusts the knife and the fork until they are perfectly aligned with the empty seat, and steps back with a sigh.

A final touch: she places a handwritten form requesting an audience with a goddess carefully to one side of the place setting, and then sits down opposite the whole arrangement.

"I cooked for your brother once before. And for Hera, when I wound up on Olympus. It just... didn't feel right, leaving you out. And I don't know how many more impossible tasks I have left before one gets me. I'm stronger now, so what's left must be harder than the whole rest of the trip put together.

"That's why I... wanted to know if you knew anything about me. Or... no, never mind. More, whatever it was I'm supposed to be, I wanted to apologize again for being such a fuckup instead. I, uh, realize now why you had no faith in me. I won't ask if anything's changed. You should just... take a moment here. That's all."