Chéri had not been at the Diamond Pony long, which was probably why they knew little to nothing about the internal dynamics. They walked right pass through the group of courtesans debating what needed to be done at the bottom of the stairs, making a frothy gestures towards them, while they played with a newly acquired feather fan and gingerly played with it, approaching the owners room. Chéri was humming a song under their breath and wore the peach three-piece-suit, one of the two outfits they had managed to bring to Whitby with them. They walked so lightly that, hadn’t it been for the singing, their presence would have been undetectable.

“Madame Carringtòn” they said in French “would you like some company? Perhaps something warm as well?” No filter, not hesitation, no hidden meaning.