I will write a soliloquy, (she promises, and she's only half kidding. It's the stuff of poetry, the image of Lup storming a spire on perilous fire to rescue her from the smoke. Something a hero right out of an epic would do, and, really, that's the kind of cool Lucretia has always considered Lup to be. Homeric.)

But I can't promise I'll leave out the stairs. It offers, uh– (what's the word she's looking for. She's smoke-addled, still a little breathless.) Benignancy? Something. I'll work it out later.

(She gives Lup a little grateful squeeze about the waist.) I know, I know. It's just– it's weird, thinking we're not immortal here. I'm used to being far more expendable than this.