If Porphyria were perhaps a more rational being, she might have been inclined to weigh up the true cost of remaining here, in the company of a man with whom she was quite sure she did not want to be any better acquainted, or of committing a momentary sacrifice which would, presumably, allow her to be liberated from this situation and free to carry on her life.

Naturally, she wasn't a rational being. (Whether such a phenomenon as a rational poet existed at all was a fair question.) What she was, rather, was stubbornly principled, and her principles dictated that she would not be forced to obey the whims of the tyrannical little plant above them, nor be swayed into any act of generosity for this stuck-up bastard. Festive goodwill, bah!

The more she was reminded about the mistletoe and its horrifying significance, the more she disliked the man before her. His tone. His face. His general existence.

"Frankly, I would rather freeze to death," Porphyria returned, suddenly and falsely chipper, and offering a smile to match. She folded her arms (mostly to bely the fact that she had started shivering), and continued to lean as far back as she possibly could from her companion, as a warning that he should indeed keep his mouth away; she could, at least, occupy herself by thinking of plenty of things she would rather do than kiss him, and if that did not involve her own tragic death or disfigurement, she supposed it could potentially involve homicide. "I hope you have nowhere important to be."

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