The dressing room has the chair next to her vanity, a longer low-slung velvet sofa gilted with gold paneling, and a chair across from that. There's also a folding modesty screen to one side, ornately painted, but that's ignored for the time being. Hasibe sinks into the sofa, not quite reclining, but tucked up against the tall arm facing the wall. She rests her feet on the ground, tilted at something of an angle, and watches Mitchell.

The difference in his tone is beginning to more completely strike her, now.

"Not bad, thus far," she speculates. "Or you wouldn't be in here with me."