Maybe it's odd, then - considering that interesting harshness - that Ilde smiles back at her, resting her elbow against the bar and sliding her little finger around the rim of her cocktail glass.

"We're going to salt and burn New York," she says, conversationally, in the most interestingly neat way; she lays out each word with thoughtful care, deliberate. "It's tainted. We don't get to be finished until it's gone."

She takes a sip, and adds, "But it's nice being able to buy couture again, in the meantime."