A giggle escapes her.
“Look at you- you’re Carmen from Toreador,” she laughs, eyeing the multicolored blossom in his hair; the bloom, caressed by the ample light in the room, cascades itself into every corner in a spectrum of stained glass. “… a barefoot Count on consecrated ground…” She dances her eyes away from him for a moment, taking in every fractured split of light on the walls. “… and you’ve turned me into a cathedral.” Her lips whisper to his, crossing him like a nun’s silent refrain. “I like this better than being a bouncy castle. Just thought you should know. Doctor.”
“Helloooo, Fortuna!” he gasps, with an entirely reverent lack of oxygen, his re-formed lungs staggering against his usually formidable ribcage like two beached whales before he sighs, and endeavours toward a modicum of speech.
It comes out in a whisper, too.
“…I take it you missed me… my Goddess of Gold…”
But in Rosette’s console room, another conversation is brewing.