Such a small amount isn't what she's used to practising with, but Ilde is optimistically hoping that means it'll be easier and not that she's going to fuck this up and splash herself in the face with Hal's spilled drink; she puts her own down beside her chair, lifting both hands and curving them, slightly, biting down on her lower lip as she concentrates. Her eyes darken, but it seems less like a change and more like that rerouted concentration is letting glimpses of something else through an illusion she isn't as focused on any more - her hands gleam, oddly, in the light.

She's almost absurdly pleased with herself with the soda water arcs into her hands, leaving dry fabric behind.

“Um--”

Did not think this part through. After a slight hesitation, she puts it back in the glass it had spilled out of, and she shrugs, “I wouldn't want you to look as if you'd wet yourself for the rest of the evening.”

So considerate.