The sound of her voice was sweet as she plied a rag to the top of a table, cleaning up the last of the mess from breakfast rush. She was glad for lulls in service so she could make sure it was ready for the next person or group of people. The Frenchwoman sang in a husky tone, her movements so fluid as to give away that she could have been a dancer. She was... though nobody knew that in these parts yet. She heaved a sigh as she wiped up one last crumb, about to sit down for a moment while she had a chance. Her bowl of porridge was cold by that point, but it was waiting for her in the back. She had been given permission to warm her meal if she needed to, so she wasn't worried.

Cerise grabbed the bucket of suds and dropped the rag into it, moving to tuck it in the nook that had been built for it. She was already tired from her toils and her stomach was gurgling angrily in anticipation for the meal that awaited her. She headed for the kitchen, but gave pause, looking back over her shoulder to make sure all was set for the next rush. Hopefully, she would get to sit down soon. Her feet ached a little more than she would have liked them to. Perhaps it was from the lack of space to stretch and dance.