[ Lakshmi's own face this close, could be discerned. Warn, old and young all at once. Old eyes as much as more gold than brown, much too old for her face, set in the deep line of black kohl around them. The dot of the bindi between her brows. The pull of a mouth that might have smiled so quickly once. A broadness, an easiness in herself. A little too blunt to be strictly handsome like a woman might like, but striking enough to make up for it, and content in that. Like she knew each limb and digit exactly as much as her own. Sated in that knowledge as she blinks at her behind the soft linen that took away the sharpness of her own gaze.

She does not pull away from the inspection and she offers no remorse for it, she takes in as she is taken in. She looks over this half-starved wild thing in front of her with stillness. The faint clink of bangles echoing softly as the boat rocked. Faint as bells against the lull of waves, the splash of water against the side of the boat as it was rowed. ]

I care little, how people dress is their own business. Just as I am my own business, and not theirs.

[ A weight to the words, and warning. She does not mind questions, but press too hard, little one, and she will bite back. ] We all wear masks. Orleasians wear feathers on theirs, and my own people use silks. There is little difference to me.