Milarca Von Karnstein had apparently found the sitting room, a couch she approved of, and a general attitude toward everyone else's emotional proceedings that was best described as critically unimpressed.
She was lying on the couch when they walked in. Not sitting. Lying, one arm behind her head, long legs crossed at the ankle, the two black roses in her hair fanned against the cushion. She had the posture of a woman who had been doing exactly this for approximately forty minutes and intended to continue until something worth paying attention to happened.
She looked up when the group entered.
She looked at several people.
And then she found Valerian, and she sat up.
Not quickly. The movement had the deliberate quality of someone deciding to rearrange themselves for a specific reason, like a cat who has identified something that has earned its full attention. She sat up, swung her feet to the floor, rested both forearms on her knees, and looked at him.
Long.
