Iolanthe glances at the girl as her lips purse. Then focuses back on the brassy feather. A curio, this. And as she continues to twirl the feather about in her fingers, she murmurs idly, distracted. Types your father would most disapprove of.
Wings shake out, pinions rattling in metallic alarm.
One broad fan of feathers brushes against Iolanthe's folded set, an accidental caress of startling, Empyrean intimacy. Canace turns toward Kacela and watches him a few moments. She mirrors the words of Iolanthe, though she says it with much less of a convincing tone. Perhaps the ocean water might do your feathers better than the distasteful public baths. She offers, the word 'distasteful' coming out with sarcasm.