"...third time is hopefully not the sticking charm," she says, after one of those dryly playful you secretive jerk looks of hers. Hasibe settles down to perch on the edge of the table, in lieu of a chair, her legs crossed at the knees. The wine glass she rests on top of her dominant knee, balanced by her power and the tip of her thumb.

The universe, mysteriously and miraculously, does not implode as a result of Hasibe implying someone else is secretive, however nonverbally.

"Are you staying at the Inn?"