“Oh, you’ve never heard of Ordenon?” said Yseltin, tugging at fabric near her knees. “It’s a city on the other side of Tarin. A very wealthy, lavish city. Colonized by those who apparently thought the high streets of Tarin Proper weren’t high enough for them. It’s quite a sight to behold, I hear. Great mansions and sweeping hills, no expense spared. The Ordenians are thought to be the wealthiest in the Span.”

“But,” he went on, “as wealthy as they are, they’re certainly no craftsmen. They fly into our own humble city so often to trade that they set up their own district on the east side. Nowhere near as extravagant as Ordenon itself, but dov’ha gia’me, it’s something! Very closed-off though. Need all the proper documentation to get through the gates.”

“From what I hear, there’s a group of them in town tonight,” he went on as though imparting some scandalous gossip. “They’re known to throw quite the elegant soiree. Now I don’t claim to ever know what that ti’eh waré is thinking, but if I were you, I’d be excited.”

“A soiree?” Leta muttered. “Fiearius wouldn’t want to attend a soiree — ”

“Too true,” came Fiearius’ voice. He paused in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his slacks — which lacked the grease and blood stains of his normal wear. A dinner jacket sat neatly around his shoulders, and he looked clean and put-together in a way Leta had never seen before. She was about to comment on his appearance, but then she noticed the odd, appreciative look brimming in his eyes. His gaze roamed over her bare freckled shoulders, down her dress, a faint smirk curving the side of his mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Leta snapped.

Yseltin came to her aid. He spun around with his hands on his hips. “You’re not supposed to be back here. I’m not ready for you yet. And where’d you find those clothes?!” he gasped.

“Rack on the other wall,” Fiearius said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, still without breaking his line of sight.

“Did you just…get changed in the middle of my store?”

“Yeah.” He wound into the room and held out his hand for Leta. “So. Ready to crash a fancy party?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Yseltin had been right: it was an elegant soiree. Ordenians in long richly-colored gowns and stiff jackets circled through the hall, chatting and laughing and toasting champagne. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a string quartet played near the dance floor. It had been a long, long time since Leta attended an event like this: it felt like stepping into her youth.

“Not really my kinda party,” Fiearius admitted, smirking at her as they descended the staircase into the hall.

“No kidding. Hey, you never told me,” Leta realized with a start, looking around at all the guests. “Who are we pretending to be, exactly? These people will sniff us out.”

“Oh, right,” said Fiearius quickly. “I researched this. You are Adinia Roledai, the rebellious young daughter of Venian Roledai who passed away a few months ago. She ran off to Vescent actually when she was thirteen. No one’s seen her since. No one would recognize her. And I. I am your unworthy Vescentian husband with no noble blood and a measly two million a year income.” He smiled innocently. “Fitting, right?”

As they wound toward the bar, she side-stepped closer and slipped her arm around his. Fiearius shot her a look of interest.

“What?” she teased. “I’m playing the part.”

“Right,” he said, curving his arm around hers. His grin was almost blinding. “The part.”

They weaved their way into the hall. As they walked through the crowd, Fiearius kept exaggeratedly greeting people as if he’d known them his whole life.

“ — and how’s the wife? The kids?” Fiearius was saying to a puzzled older man, before stealing his glass of champagne, downing it one gulp and then handing it back to him. Leta, snorting to herself, quickly steered him toward the bar. It was a much safer bet than leaving him loose around these people.

As their drinks were slid smoothly across the bar into the hands, Fiearius’ attention span was already thinning. “We should dance,” he said, then downed half his drink in one shot. “Dance with me.”

The orchestra was just beginning a new tune; couples were melting onto the dance floor, hand-in-hand. A tug in Leta’s chest told her she would’ve liked to join, but she turned away from the dance floor. “You shouldn’t even be on your feet right now at all, Fiear. Your legs are barely healed.”

And besides — this night was such an odd turn of events; she’d gone too long without answers. “Fiearius,” she sighed in exasperation. “Why are we even here? You haven’t told me a damn thing, just that you need my help to get a gift. We got the gift. So what are we doing now?”

“The painting wasn’t the gift I was talking about,” Fiearius said, reaching for his martini once more. “That was just step one. Now I need your help with another gift. Which is around here somewhere … “ He glanced over his shoulder around the hall.

“So we’re stealing yet again. Who is this gift for?” she asked impatiently.

“Still not you.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me that at least. Tell me something. You’re killing me. Because this is just about the absolute weirdest date — or non-date,” she amended hastily, careful to avoid Fiearius’ eye, “that I’ve ever been on.”

“Date?” Fiearius laughed like he’d never heard anything so outlandish. “Who said anything about this being a date?”

Leta cocked her head to the side, full of innocence. “Oh? So it’s not a date then.”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “No,” he said simply. “I mean — “ he added mockingly, “I certainly don’t expect that.”

He was using her own words against her. Naturally.

“Very funny,” Leta responded dully. She traced her finger around her glass, then looked up at him. “This is just getting ridiculous you know. You and I.”

He simply rose his glass in agreement. “Yep.”

“Do you want to talk about it then? About what happened between us.” About what is still happening between us, Leta added silently.

Fiearius looked momentarily surprised. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he claimed innocently, for about ten seconds — before he lowered his glass to the bar and looked at her seriously. “Yeah. Actually. I wouldn’t be opposed to revisiting the terms of our arrangement. But not here, alright? Not around these … stiffs … “

He drew his brow together and cast an uncertain look around the hall, while tugging uncomfortably at his collar. “You’re used to this kinda thing, aren’t you? What’s there to do at these classy parties?”

“Well,” Leta sighed, “we probably should be interfacing with our wealthy contemporaries … “ She turned back to the bar. “But I’m going to keep drinking.” As she lifted her glass to her lips, she couldn’t help but notice the bartender and a few people nearby were throwing them lingering, questioning looks.

“Our disguises might be failing,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “We’re drawing some stares … “

“Pretty sure that’s just you,” Fiearius teased, toying absently with a ruffle of fabric around her waist and grinning at her. With his other hand he polished off the rest of the drink and looked around: the hall was more crowded now, the music was louder and the dance floor was full.

“Alright,” said Fiearius briskly, thudding his drink down to the bar. He watched in amusement as a well-dressed older man stumbled over himself on the way to the dance floor. “Showtime. These people are officially too drunk to figure out what we’re up to. Let’s go.”

Fiearius led them along a quieter street to their next stop, which turned out to be a quaint little store a few blocks away from the square. To Leta’s immense interest, the windows were filled with mannequins and dresses — he’d brought them to a clothing boutique.

“Where the hell are taking me now?” Leta asked as Fiearius pushed open the front glass door, which dinged merrily to announce their presence. Inside, the store was filled with racks of dresses and suits, but emptied of staff.

“Hello?” Fiearius called. Even the cash register was empty. “Hello-o?” When no one answered, he muttered, furrowing his brow, “Oh he better be here … “

Leta wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned. The owner of a fancy clothing store did not seem like someone Fiearius would associate with regularly. “So who is it we’re giving the painting t — “

But it was then that a man stepped out between the racks so quickly that Leta jumped backwards into Fiearius. He was a short, round gentleman with a wide grin, kind eyes, and rosy cheeks. “Tieh waré!” he greeted cheerfully, marching forward, and, to Leta’s amazement, he pushed her aside so he could better throw his pudgy arms around Fiearius’ middle.

Leta noticed the man rather lacked the immediate firepower — and the height — of Fiearius’ usual network of thugs. But anyone bold enough to seize Fiearius in a hug like that had to have something going for him.

Fiearius half-grimaced, half-laughed as he patted the man on the shoulder awkwardly. “Orodiase, noh fian de gona’iin.”

“Asa’de, asa’de!” cried the man, taking a step back and bouncing on his feet in excitement. Then he noticed Leta and his eyes bulged. “Horidi forata sou limére ta?”

“She doesn’t speak the language, orodiase,” said Fiearius quickly. “This is my ship’s doc, and this is Yseltin, old friend from Satieri.”

“Oh, dov’ha gi’ame, I’m so sorry,” said the man, suddenly seizing both of her hands in his and squeezing. “Forgive my rudeness. I assumed your companion here would inform me of something like that before I made a fool out of myself.” He shot a glare at Fiearius before returning soft eyes to Leta. “My name is Rahdien Yseltin. I welcome you to my humble shop.” He smoothly lifted her wrist and kissed the back of her hand.

Over his head, Fiearius was rolling his eyes. Leta, however, laughed.

“Well aren’t you friendly. Nice to meet you, I’m Leta. And — how is it you know Fiearius?” she couldn’t resist asking. This was possibly the least likely scenario Leta could have imagined.

“Fiearius and I? Oh, my dear, we go way, way back. This man — he saved my life.” His chest swelled with emotion. “He truly did. Against all odds. More than I deserve.” The man took a deep, shaky breath, and Leta found her curiosity piqued. Especially when he confessed, “Believe it or not, he spared me from death. You’d never believe the story — “

“Hey, Yseltin, didn’t you see,” Fiearius suddenly interrupted, lifting the painting in his hand. “I brought you a gift.”

“Dov’ha toridi, this man,” he said, his voice exhausted. “I owe him my life, he keeps bringing me gifts. How ever will I repay my debt at this rate?”

“I told you,” Fiearius said impatiently, “You’ve already repaid your–”

“Although,” Yseltin went on, tapping his finger to his lips. “I cannot say no to such wonderful gifts. Especially not when they are pretty girls.” He held Leta’s shoulder fondly. “Though what will my wife say when she finds out?”

“Not the girl, giaté,” Fiearius muttered, passing Leta a look of exasperation. “This.” He held up the artwork again, though Yseltin did not glance at it.

“Ah, she’s yours then? I was wondering,” the man guessed slyly, a broad smirk slipping over his face, which made Fiearius growl in frustration.

“She’s not–”

“Though I don’t know how you managed to win such a fine young woman for yourself.”

“I didn’t–”

“If you don’t mind me asking, miss — “ He swung toward Leta. “How well do you know him?”

At last, Fiearius held out the art piece one more time and snapped, “Take it or I’m taking it back.”

With that, Yseltin burst into laughter. He released Leta’s shoulder and accepted the handsome painting with two hands. “It is a fine gift, tieh waré. You, as always, have exquisite taste. But I have to ask — why? What is it this time, hm? You bring me such a fine gift, you must need something.”

So it was an exchange, Leta realized with growing interest. And indeed, Fiearius replied quickly, without looking at her, “We need papers.”

“Papers?” said Yseltin. “What kind of papers?”

“Ordenian papers,” Fiearius stated simply.

“What’re those?” said Leta, just as Ysetin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ordenian? Now why in the dov’has’ names do you need Ordenian papers?”

Fiearius sighed. “Because there’s something I want to do that requires me to be Ordenian of course.”

With that, Ystelin suddenly brightened. “Oh oh oh! You need Ordenian identity papers! You need a new name! That means you wish wish to attend the–”

“Yes, that,” Fiearius cut him off. “Can you get us in?”

“In where?” said Leta, deeply curious. “Where’re we going now?”

“Oho, you’ll see, my dear,” said Yseltin, beaming. He clapped his hands together. “I can get you papers. Getting into the event though…You?” He frowned. “The lady, perhaps. But even she…You know how rich the Ordenian people are? They will sniff you out in a heartbeat, you know that.”

Fiearius opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off as Yseltin seemed to amend this problem. “But thank the gods, you’re here in my shop and I can make you look the part.”

“Well I was just going to–” Fiearius muttered through gritted teeth.

But by now, Yseltin was pushing Fiearius back deeper into his shop. “We will give you Ordenian garments. Fine Ordenian garments. You will blend right in! And you too, young lady!” he cried, as Leta hovered in the doorway uncertainly. “Tieh waré, pick out something from these racks. And you, miss — into the changing rooms!

Before Leta could comprehend what was happening, Yseltin seized her hands and dragged her back to the dressing rooms. “Let’s get started! Not much time!”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

A half hour later, Leta barely recognized her own reflection. She looked nothing like herself, or nothing like herself of the past six months aboard a dirty pirate ship anyway. Her ragged jacket, shirt and trousers were discarded and replaced with a long, bold-red dress that fell over her bare feet, shimmering faintly in the light.

Behind her, Yseltin was positively bouncing with excitement. “It is perfect! It is perfect on you! Just a few more adjustments — “ He darted forward, needle stuck between his teeth, to finish the fitting. Leta managed a heavy, confused laugh.

How had this happened, exactly? She certainly hadn’t woken up this morning thinking she’d end up on Tarin, in a clothing boutique, wearing a gown and waiting for Fiearius to return. And in fact, at first, she’d resisted Yseltin (“Really, I can just run back to the ship and change, I don’t need to — “) but then, he’d brandished the dress at her and she’d gone a bit weak. As it happened, she’d lived on a grimy pirate ship with mostly male crew for nearly a year, and the last time she’d gone out wearing something like that had been even longer. As such, she couldn’t help it: her eyes got big.

“It is beautiful,” Leta had to admit through a wistful sigh, turning around on the dias. “But I still don’t understand where we’re going. Why did we need new identities? And what does Ordenian mean?”

And that was that. He’d been left with more questions than answers. The rest of the week, they’d been polite, if a bit terse, and simply avoiding one another.

Of course, Fiearius couldn’t begin to explain this to Cyrus. He simply leaned back in his seat and replied, casually as he could, “What the hell is there to figure out anyway, Cy? We were a little drunk, we argued, we got physical, it’s not like some grand mystery of the universe.”

The answer was clearly not the one Cyrus wanted, but fortunately he didn’t press it. He just eyed his brother wearily and seemed to give it up. Seemed to. Up until he opened his mouth and said, “I don’t want you hurting her.”

At that, Fiearius gave a start. “Excuse me?”

“She’s been through enough recently,” Cyrus went on, furrowing his brow seriously. Fiearius couldn’t help but wonder if this had been rehearsed. “Everything that happened with Ren and the Baltimore and Satieri. It’s a lot on one person. And the last thing she needs is you mucking things up even more.”

“Mucking things up?”

“I’m asking you, as your brother and as her friend, to just lay off. She’s had enough crap thrown at her recently, she doesn’t need any more.” He paused, and then said boldly, “She doesn’t need to be another notch on your bedpost.”

Frankly, Fiearius couldn’t believe this surreal conversation was even happening. Cyrus was possibly the least confrontational person he knew.. “Wow,” was all he could say at first, almost laughing. “Just…wow. I’m so glad that’s what you think of me.” Closing his eyes, he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. At last he admitted, quietly, “She wouldn’t be.”

Cyrus didn’t answer, though even with his eyes clamped shut, Fiearius could feel his stare. Finally, he asked with all the knowingness of a sibling, “How deep does this go?”

Dragging his hand away, Fiearius looked over at him. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I mean–I care about her. I respect her. I trust her. I don’t know?” A bitter grin ran across his face, then faded slowly toward thought, and he found himself talking more than usual.

“There’s something about her,” he went on, mumbling now. “Or, I guess, about being around her. She makes me feel better. And I don’t mean less crappy. She makes me feel– “ But the words failed him. Cyrus tilted his head at him curiously, but still said nothing. “To everyone else,” he tried to explain, “I’m just this reckless murderous psychopath with a spaceship, too far gone to ever come back from that. And I’ve come to believe them. That’s just who I am and it’s hopeless. But with her, it’s not like that. That’s not an excuse. She believes I can be better than that and it’s…I don’t know, it’s refreshing. It’s refreshing to have someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m a lost cause.”

Cyrus was watching him with a perfectly blank expression. Though of all the things Fiearius expected him to say, the last was, “I don’t look at you like that…”

Which was completely beside the point. Fiearius glared at him and then rolled his eyes. “Well okay, but you’re my brother, so I’m not really interested in you, thanks.”

“But you’re interested in Leta?”

Fiearius opened his mouth, then sharply closed it again. “It doesn’t matter,” he decided at last. “You said it yourself. She’s been through enough. Need I remind you she just got dumped by her fiance? You know, the one she spent a year trying to save only to find him off his rocker?” He snorted. “Doubt she’s in the mood for something new.”

“Pretty sure that’s up to her.”

“Sure, but it’s up to me too. And I don’t wanna be that guy’s replacement. Nor do I want to be around when he inevitably comes back from crazy town and sweeps her off her feet.”

Cyrus shrugged one shoulder. “That’s a fair point. But you don’t know that’s going to happen. I don’t think their relationship is quite that black and white. Nor do I think yours is. And you’re definitely nothing like Ren so you’d be a shitty choice of replacement regardless.” Cyrus smirked, but Fiearius felt miles away from amused.

“I’m just saying, that sounds like an excuse,” Cyrus went on knowingly. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve felt real, actual human emotions, but it’s not that scary, y’know. Trying something. Maybe there’s some risk involved, but if she really makes you feel so good, maybe it’s worth it. Who knows?”

Fiearius said nothing as he leaned his head on his hand. Although he would never admit it aloud, he couldn’t ignore the fact: Cyrus had a point.

Trying to brush that uncomfortable thought aside, Fiearius muttered, “What’s with you anyway? One minute you’re asking me to leave her alone, the next you want me to be her damn boyfriend, I don’t get it.”

Cyrus smirked sideways at him. “All I want is for you to stop causing problems,” he admitted absently. “And either of those would do it. It’s the in-between I have trouble with. Though if you choose the latter, I don’t need to hear about the details. Or worse, witness the details. Ever. If it’s all the same to you.”

Fiearius snorted. “Noted. Though it’s a little ironic, y’know. Taking relationship advice from you, of all people.”

“Are you taking relationship advice from me?” Cyrus laughed. “What are you going to do?”

It was a question Fiearius should have answered by now. He knew that. His back-and-forth with Leta had been tumultuous and perplexing for months. But suddenly, more than ever before, Fiearius feel the pieces coming together — some things started making sense. Some things were coming rapidly into focus.

Reaching forward to the console, he pulled up the navigation and switched the ship’s destination from Archeti to Tarin — if he remembered correctly, Tarin was a place Leta liked. Even better then. “I have an idea.”

“Everything we have is going straight to fuel, since this girl eats like a monster,” Corra went on. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do when our crew asks for their paychecks and I’m pretty sure we’ll run out of food eventually. But all we seem to be able to do is bring it petty chump change and it’s getting us nowhere.”

“I’m willing to forgo payment if it’s of any comfort,” Daelen said. Corra smiled at him, but shook her head.

“That’s sweet, but I doubt the lot we picked up on Carthis will feel the same. And there’s thirty of them and only one of you…”

“It’s only been a week,” put in Addy, looking hopeful. “It’ll get easier.”

“No,” said Finn suddenly, swigging his beer and lowering it to the dashboard with a thud. “Corra’s right. We need a long-term plan here. Something sustainable.”

“I suppose legal work is out of the question,” Daelen put in thoughtfully. Finn and Corra simply stared at him.

“Right,” Daelen muttered. “Never mind.”

“Can’t do legal work on a stolen Society vessel anyway, mate,” Finn sighed. “We need a connection to the black market. These one-off gigs are gonna get us nowhere.”

Corra had to agree. “When the Dionysian was first starting out, they partnered with Goddora. Not that anyone should partner with that son of a bitch, but maybe we need something like that? We need our own Goddora.”

“Actually — “ Finn ruffled his hair into untidiness, then suddenly dropped his hand to his knee. He looked quite thoughtful, which was most unusual. “I might know a guy.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

The canopy of white stars filling the Dionysian’s window was the most beautiful sight Fiearius could imagine. After two months in the infirmary, he’d never been happier to sit in his own chair, enjoy the view and simply listen to the quiet around him. Gods, he had missed this.

Carefully as he could, he lifted his legs onto the control panel, wincing as pain shot up his knees — probably he was due for another dose of Flush. He’d taken one pill this morning when he’d awoken to a searing pain jolting up his spine, but the effects were starting to wear off. In his younger years, he rarely needed more than one pill to feel invincible for hours and hours. But in his younger years, he wasn’t recovering from a crippling injury.

Fortunately, the other effects — the heightened energy levels, the mild deliria, the loss of judgment and control — were starting to lessen. For the first week, he’d been all over the place, with high-highs and low-lows that had caused more than a few problems, but nearly two weeks in, his body was starting to readapt to the old system.

He was just about to reach under the control panel to grab one of  the pills he’d stashed there when he heard footsteps approaching. He quickly withdrew his hand just in time as Cyrus marched tiredly into the cabin.

Fiearius watched as his brother dropped into the co-pilot’s seat, swung his feet onto the panel, took in a deep breath and proceeded to gaze out the window without a word of hello.

Fiearius cocked a brow. “Everything okay, little brother?”

“Just exhausted.” He sighed. “Haven’t worked this much in a long time. Between the Dionysian and that mechanic and my freelance and the Beacon…”

Fiearius chuckled. “Please, the Beacon should be a cakewalk to you compared to my beast. Finn and Corra have it good.” Cyrus grunted an appreciative laugh, but predictably, the mention of their former arms master made him grow suddenly quiet.

Fiearius knew exactly what was on his mind.

“Still seems weird, huh?” he asked. “Not having her here. It’s so…quiet…”

“Yeah,” said Cyrus hollowly, before promptly changing the subject. “So where are we going?”

“Archeti,” said Fiearius. “Need to talk to Quin.”

“Something I should be worried about?”

Fiearius grinned. “Not just yet.”

“Well just let me know when to start.”

“‘Course,” Fiearius replied easily, shifting his feet on the dashboard. “So hey. Can I ask you something?”

“We both know that’s rhetorical,” Cyrus muttered dryly.

A slow smile spread over his face. “The blonde girl?”

Cyrus seemed to be waiting for the question to continue. When it didn’t, he snapped, “Addy? Yes? What about her?” When Fiearius answered only with a suggestive raise of his brow, Cyrus snapped, “Stop.”

“What, why?” Fiearius demanded. “She’s cute. And she’s almost as nerdy as you are. It’s not that far-fetched. You should pursue it.”

Cyrus looked over at him incredulously. “Pursue it? She’s not prey, Fiear. She’s a highly competent engineer whose family’s work I greatly respect. And that’s why she’s halfway across the span on the Beacon.”

“Which was a decision that lacked some foresight,” Fiearius commented. “Sending her on a different ship. Far away.”

“It was not. She’s doing a great job.”

“Oh, so you’ve been talking to her then?”

Cyrus pushed his glasses up his nose, flustered. “Yes, actually. Miraculously, she’s still willing to speak to me even after I exposed her to you.” The malice in his voice made Fiearius’ amusement collapse. He knew what was coming, before Cyrus even said, “Speaking of which.”

“Oh, let’s not,” Fiearius groaned, immediately looking away. Up until now, it was with mutual understanding that he and Cyrus had avoided discussing What Had Happened In The Bridge Last Week. Fiearius sure as hell couldn’t meet his eyeline when it came to how his sibling had seen him entangled with Leta up against the wall ….

But apparently, Cyrus was ready to confront the situation. “Well? Have you even talked to her about it?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Fiearius grunted. “And yes, I have, actually.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you figure it out?”

Fiearius didn’t answer. No, nothing had been figured out. If anything, when it came to the likes of Leta, Fiearius had never had such conflicting, confusing feelings pulling him every direction.

“We need to talk,” Leta had told him sternly the night after it happened, to which he agreed that yes, they probably ought to. He’d followed her into a quieter alcove of the ship, though before she could speak, he’d said quickly “Look, I’m sorry that things might’ve gotten a little — out of hand, the other night … “

She’d apologized too, her eyes wide and sincere and worried. He resisted the temptation to close the distance between them a second time and respectfully gave her a wide berth. Then she said, bluntly, “Look, Fiearius, I’m not going to just sleep with you, alright?”

It felt as if Fiearius were walking a tightrope. One wrong reaction would send her out of the room. Choosing his words carefully, he managed, “‘Just’? So, what — you want something more, then?”

Her reaction was, admittedly, a touch painful. A knife in his gut. “No,” she had said, “I certainly don’t expect that.”

“I didn’t ask what you expected,” Fiearius clarified quietly. “I asked what you wanted.”

Leta had stared up at him like a deer caught in headlights, but before she could answer, several things happened at once: the speaker on the nearby wall cackled with a message from the Beacon; Amora and Rhys started arguing loudly nearby; and, quickly seizing the moment, Leta excused herself, muttered that she needed some time to think, and fled the room.