"Well, that is cynical," she says, not looking at all as if she disapproves. It occurs to her that I must look up how to say 'cynical' in Ragamoll and she stores that notion away somewhere in her immaculately ordered mind. "You're right, of course. Academics are such gloryhounds. Nevertheless, I'm safe with this. Baedalite academia is a mixed bag-" a patchwork, a jumble, a mess "-but one from which the painstaking practice exercises of a language learner are excluded."

She pauses and looks to the cafe, her abandoned table, then back to Ilde. As body language goes, it is an ellipsis. She's aware that she should probably make the semblances of friends; it was brought up time and time again at her trial that she named no friends but John Luther. Things were said. Personality disorder sort of things. She'd been quite insulted, not hurt, just insulted, and while it had hardly been the undoing of any defence she might have tried (getting caught with Ian Reed's shotgun in her hand and confessing was probably to blame for that) she feels that it nonetheless pays to plan ahead. Ilde, anyway, seems at least mildly interesting; there is something over-real and unreal about her, like she was made for somewhere other than here- of course, Baedal is the ultimate round hole for square pegs, but it's something besides that.

"Were you planning on stopping in?"