"There's another kind," she promises him in a tone of sincere reassurance, lashes lowering for a moment. She starts to roll the string between her fingers into a faded blue ball before flicking it into the rain with a disdainful sort of flourish, like she's attempting to offend the weather as much as it offends her. Another cold droplet snakes down her neck -- around her neck. She avoids a grimace upon finding a sodden tendril of hair sticking to her skin and tries to one-handedly nurse it back into place. Then there's another, spiralling down from her updo and slithering down her neck, leaving a wet trail; she plucks at her hairstyle with affected absent-mindedness. A pin falls, accidental and entirely inaudible, but Irene feels the slight loss of tension -- the first rumblings of an avalanche. She pulls her hand away swiftly so as to not to bring on total collapse. This, she thinks, is what she needed Kate for. (No, it isn't).

"Did you storm off in disgust?" she asks. He's distracted -- no, he's confused. No, he's damp and miserable. She touches his upper arm with just her fingertips, not to pick off any more of the debris of that assumed terrible party but as a quietly pointed reminder that she's here and that she likes to be looked at. A curl unravels and another pin drops.