She glances up from her busy work every now and then to gauge Mireille's expressions. Thinking back to when she last saw Weyland in the bar — that had been at least several weeks ago. Perhaps closer to a month. He'd been talking about such strange things in his quest to reclaim his world and his mistress; she wonders if Mireille could have known, or been affected by it.

(It strikes her, suddenly, how similar the crater she rode by is to the one Weyland left in Milliways.)

"There. How's that?"

She has the neck rag tied into a neat bow around Mireille's left wrist. The fabric is checkered, a lovely red with a pale, pale blue.

"You're a bit taller'n I am, but your waist is slight. Y'might jus' fit into one of my fresh dresses, if you'd like a change of clothes."