Ida’s nose wrinkled slightly as she waved off his remark about unlabeled things, she was sure someone here was in the know— “Excuse me,” she flagged down passing waitstaff. “Could you tell us what’s in this drink?” She indicated to a mostly orange concoction that was nearest to them, only to be met by the woman’s wide eyes. “Oh I’m so sorry Miss, we really haven’t the faintest,” she apologized. Ida had enough politeness to wait until she whisked away to audibly scoff. Were these hosts really so wealthy they didn’t give a single flying fig about the types of drinks they served? “Well. That’s preposterous,” she admonished.

But then Mister Greengrass was doing the valiant thing and offered to be the Guinea pig taste tester, and Ida couldn’t help but laugh. “If you don’t mind,” she allowed, looking a bit sheepish as he inspected the drink. She couldn’t fathom what something that looked like that tasted like. “Though in the unlikely event that it kills you, are there any last words you’d like me to convey to Clem?” She parried back, watching him take his sip. Well, he didn’t grimace or anything, which she considered a good sign. Mister Greengrass could be very expressive, and she liked to think she was getting a good read of him.

The young woman shook her head as he mentioned the Sonata— he was right, she’d been at school, though this business with dancers and contortionists sure sounded… “Interesting,” she parroted back. “What part of it did you like the most? And was it a story or more like… multiple athletic feats?” She gestured with fingers splayed and palms out, waving her hands rapidly to and fro like that’s what she figured dancers did.

At any rate, she was looking for a recommendation, and her expression lapsed into a glimpse of her mischievous grin as he said it wasn’t bad at all. “Alright then, I’ll try,” she proclaimed adventurously, taking up her own glass. “Can you tell what it is?” In the end there was one thing Ida decidedly never liked— and that was not knowing something.

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