Hair-cutting, then, doesn't get added to the list. And while his praise doesn't raise a smile to her lips, there is some note of tension that eases in her posture. Or maybe it's not actually tension easing but a minor movement telegraphing her intention just before she leans in and — with her right hand, of course — she uses the back of her fingers to carefully adjust his forelock of hair just that little bit off his forehead. And then to brush stray cut hairs off his shoulder.
Satisfied, nodding, she leans back against the desk's edge and busies herself with unrolling and refastening her safehand sleeve. Although — storms — she misses the white.
"Next time," she decides, "I'll soulcast the colour. Less mess."
It's hopeful. It requires her Surges to be restored.
Although she doesn't smile, her touch produces an inexorable upward tug of his own lips. If it's been a long time since someone has touched him on the shoulder, as she had last night, it's been— an eon since another human being has touched his face, his hair. It makes an embarrassing warmth spread from his chest outward, down to the tips of his fingers and toes.
"Good idea," he agrees, despite the fact that he has no idea what soulcasting his hair will really entail. Is it dangerous? Does it hurt? He'll find out when it happens.
Then—
well, his hair was the whole point of her coming over, and now it's done. He doesn't want her to leave, but he doesn't know how to ask her to stay, either. So:
It occurs to her he might be urging her onward and out. His hair was the whole point of her stopping by, wasn't it? And now it's done. She doesn't want to leave, but she doesn't know how to ask to stay either.
So. Once her sleeve is buttoned again. Once her tolerance for the silence runs dry and she realizes she really ought to say something. Once she glances at his window and recognizes how high Nomon is in the night sky, hanging large and blue over the middle-distance mountains.
"I'll give you back the balance of your night," Jasnah announces — pushing off his desk and heading for the door.
At the very same moment Jasnah speaks, Verso blurts out, "We could play chess if you—"
He trails off as he hears his words overlapping with hers, retreating back into his shell as soon as he'd left it. Obviously, she has more important things to do. Books to annotate. Marriage laws to review. Wars to worry about.
"Oh— no, yeah, of course." To his credit, he doesn't let (too much) disappointment seep into his voice. "Another time."
Thing is, she does have more important things to do. If she stays longer—? She doesn't trust herself not to stay too long. Until sunrise, again. Jasnah squares her shoulders and reminds herself that this can't become habit. Although, oh, she does want to learn more about chess. She hasn't forgotten him asking about it before.
"Another time," she promises. His surrender makes it easier for her to do what's right rather than what she wants.
And she does intend it as a promise. It's just — hers is an ever-shifting pole of priorities, and it's hard to guarantee that any one individual (even herself) will ever position higher than the packets of paper waiting for her back in her study.
"Use the spanreed if you need to reach me," Jasnah nods at the kit she'd had delivered to his room earlier in the day. "And I'll do the same."
As flippant as he can manage: "It's because I got rid of the white, isn't it? Can't bear to look at me for a moment longer."
It's a joke. He gets it. Really. In fact, she's being completely rational. Any reasonable person would support her focusing on what really matters. A good friend would, too, so that's what he does.
Verso stands, opening the door for her to step through.
"I'll free you from your suffering," he says, dry. "Good night, Jasnah."
— He may be joking, but that doesn't spare him the roll of her eyes as she reaches the door. Hand on the frame, she pauses, long enough to give him one last, assessing glance. Long enough, too, for one final kindness.
"It looks good," she says, measured and sincere. "Even without the white."
If it looks a touch closer to Hoid's preferred iteration of the Queen's Wit, she refuses to linger on the comparison. She gives her farewell instead and makes the slightly-too-long walk back to her family's floor, to the familiar austerity of her own rooms.
Time passes.
Not dramatically but in the incremental way of habits adjusting under space and familiarity. She tries to strike a more tolerable balance for him, if not for herself. She no longer requires Verso's presence at every council or coalition meeting, but neither does she consign him to the margins. It's a small, intentional correction. A gradual retreat from treating him like — by his own phrasing — background furniture. And in the meantime, there are one or two nights where she stays in his room until the sun threatens to rise.
A week later, she's perched on a stool in the usual coalition chamber, a notebook open on her lap and a frown firmly in place. The notebook is Shallan's.
Verso arrives without having been summoned. And so she doesn't immediately know why he's here. But when she looks up, the frown softens — just a little — before she can help herself.
"Come," she says, beckoning him closer, because she knows he'll appreciate this even as it frustrates her. "The girl still cannot pay attention. She's doodling when she should be taking notes."
She rises and turns the notebook toward him. Between the bullet points and careful summaries are small portraits — politicians and generals rendered with uncanny precision. A page back reveals a looser study, half-finished, unmistakably Verso himself, caught mid-sentence as he spoke to someone out of frame.
Jasnah exhales, equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration. Fondness, even.
The week passes more pleasantly than the last. There's still hours of loneliness, and moments of disappointment, and times when he wonders if he hasn't gotten himself into something that's going to end up torturous. But he begins to fill the time when Jasnah doesn't need or want him with projects; he writes out future music theory lessons for her in his notebook, draws out a chessboard on a sheet of paper and creates little paper approximations of the game pieces, pens a new poem. Occasionally, he even meets people, and it helps remind him that there's more to life than just Jasnah.
There is, however, still a lot of Jasnah. He doesn't particularly mind. Seeing the corners of her mouth soften is nearly as good as seeing her smile, and it makes the inside of his chest feel all fluttery like how it used to when he was sixteen and asking a pretty girl to dance and stepping all over her toes out of nervousness.
The 'doodles' Jasnah shows him are good. Better than good. Shallan has such art talent that it makes him wonder just why she's under Jasnah's tutelage instead of furthering her craft, although he doesn't dare say it in front of Jasnah. He especially likes the one that resembles him, and he visibly brightens when he sees it, flattered to be her subject even in a quick sketch.
"I used to doodle all the time during class, and look at me," he says as he leans over her, craning his neck to inspect the art. "Valedictorian, if you've forgotten."
Understandable that she would! It's been at least two weeks since he's bragged about it.
"Doodles help keep the brain engaged. And a creative mind has cross-applications," he points out, annoyingly. "Plus, she has good taste in subjects."
Jasnah still doesn't quite understand what a Valedictorian is meant to be — except that perhaps it's something like earning a master scholar's cap. Despite her young age (relative to other scholars!) Jasnah really should have earned her own by this point. So whispered significant chunks of the academic community. Unfortunately for Jasnah, her pesky and persistent opinions about the Vorin church have as good as blacklisted her.
Either way. She assumes a Valedictorian might be something like that — so his claim makes her wonder about the seriousness of scholarship in Lumière. She eases past the bravado with a nod and a quiet yes, yes, good for you.
"They're going to end up in the official records," Jasnah grouses. Because somehow the devoted historian in her won't suffer actually omitting something from the primary source — and surely this will be a trove for some future academic to unearth. But! "She really ought to think twice before sketching Sebarial with his finger up his nose."
Even if that was indeed what Sebarial had done. Brilliant entrepreneur; horrific manners.
How annoying. Jasnah didn't even care about his very intellectual comment on the merits of doodling during class. Why even try? (He's still gonna keep trying.)
"It's an authentic representation of life in Urithiru from a direct source," he says, smugly pleased with himself for coming up with such a fancy-pants argument. "I'm surprised you of all people are advocating for the sanitization of history."
"I'm not advocating for anything more than efficient, useful note-taking."
Jasnah stares at him — but there's a glimmer of something in her expression. Concession, maybe. Like she knows that on some level he's right. Even if she'd argue that her present needs are more pressing than someone else's future passion. It's all a bit meaningless if they can't manage to survive the next few months.
"However," she hedges, "your argument is a good one. I'll keep it in mind when I do speak with her. At least she's come a long way from simply scribbling And then Dalinar said something everyone agreed with — progress over perfection."
With an idle flip through the notebook — perhaps more interested in reminding herself about an earlier point — she doesn't look back up as she says: "There's a carafe of pink in the foyer. I imagine you passed it on your way in. Pour a cup, please."
"I'm flattered to be your afterthought," Verso quips, although there's no bite to it, and he does in fact backtrack to the foyer to fetch her a cup of pink. He pours himself one, too, although it's a very small amount. He'd learned last time that all wine is not made equal, especially on Roshar; for someone who considers himself quite the vinophile, there's little more disappointing than subpar wine.
So, when he returns and drops her cup off on her desk, he sniffs the pink and takes a careful sip. It tastes— not bad, but definitely not like wine.
By the time he returns, she's shifted her posture — one hand on the council table, the other loose at her side. There's a map nearby, and a packet of papers fastened with a blue ribbon. But it's still the notes that absorb her. She likely should head back to her own study, but given the distance and the likelihood that she'll need to back here within the hour...
Well. She makes do. She'll work wherever she finds herself.
Without looking up, she reaches for the cup and — and, yes, she hesitates. It's hard not to. The habit to soulcast anything handed to her runs deep. She's done it for years. But with a steadying breath, she takes a mouthful of pink wine and swallows without even tasting it.
Her little moment of agita overcome, Jasnah tunes back into the conversation once he mentions...something? Something about wine? Her echoic memory kicks in and she straightens to take the bait.
"There's likely a pitcher of blue out there, too, if you'd prefer."
Erroneously assuming that real wine (in this case) simply means actually alcoholic.
"That's not real wine," he corrects like the snob he is, leaning his hip against the desk as he swirls the very-much-not-wine in his cup. Then, a little less annoyingly, he adds, "I should clarify: Lumièran wine. A 40-year-old Bordeaux—" Gesturing with the cup: "That's real wine."
Ah. This again. Like how he'd talked about the wine at the stormshelter bar. It feels like a lifetime ago. Idly — easing into her next, more relaxed sip — she wonders whether she could (theoretically) soulcast this 40-year-old Bordeaux into existence, provided he gave her an ample and detailed description. Like not. Organics were always harder when you'd never tasted them yourself. Like that strawberry jam Kabsal had brought her and Shallan...
He misses playfighting with Monoco like unruly puppies and being called an idiot with complete affection. He misses Esquie's preternatural ability to tell when he was upset and offer a hug. He misses being Alicia's only and therefore favorite brother.
After a moment: "Coq au vin. The opera house. My model train set."
"Yeah," he says, brightening at just the thought of it. How he'd loved his model trains. Still does, even if they're beyond his reach now. He sets the cup down on the desk so that he can gesture properly, approximating the size of one of the model trains between his hands.
"Replicas of trains. I had this one— an O-gauge hand-painted tinplate live steam locomotive—"
Usually — usually — when Jasnah asks a question, she can follow the answer she's given. She's smart! Brilliant, even. When the topic is outside of her expertise, she finds a great deal of comprehension can still be cobbled together on context clues alone. Her brain is big and mighty enough to do so even in a handful of languages outside of Alethi.
But, storms, she has no idea what he just said. O-gauge? Tin? Seam locomotive? She understands hand-painted. Is this an artsy thing? All she knows for certain is that she likes the look in his eyes when he dives into the topic. It's...endearing. He's endearing as he rushes into a loose, gestured demonstration.
Jasnah sets down her cup. She pushes her work aside. Verso has her unbridled attention.
"I know what models are," she redirects his explanation. "But you'll have to explain what a train is."
"Oh, right," Verso says after a moment. He'd been so caught up in the euphoria of getting to talk about trains that for a moment he lived in a world where trains actually still exist. "I guess Roshar doesn't have any."
How to explain in a way that makes sense? He's silent for just a second, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip in thought. Then he inhales, preparing for the explanation: "They're a series of cars on a railroad— uh, vehicles you can ride on that drive down tracks laid into the ground—"
He grimaces. It's hard to explain.
Holding out a hand: "Can I borrow a pen? I'll show you."
Her attention doesn't waver. Not for a second. Even as he stands — silent — thinking through one explanation. And, when that explanation weaves him into a corner, he tries another. Jasnah does follow (loosely) but does wonder about how one lays tracks in the ground. Rosharan ground is so, well, hard.
For a moment, she worries he'll give up and wave his explanation off with something watered-down and unsatisfying. After all, it's his signature move. I don't know and I couldn't say and something like that. But, to her gratified surprise, he offers to show her.
This time, her smile stays longer than a flicker. Although her body language stays reserved as she reaches for the pen, sitting abandoned to her side, and then tips it into his hand. And if that didn't betray her eagerness, then perhaps it shows up instead in how readily she slides a scrap of paper over — flipped onto its back, so he doesn't have to share his canvas with some scratched-down arithmetic.
"Okay—" Verso takes a knee beside her so that he can draw without leaning over and irritating his already tense shoulder muscles, then sketches out a quick set of railroad tracks. Beside them, he draws a few blades of grass to indicate that they're laid into the ground.
"This is a railroad. Tracks of steel rails across the earth. And this—" He sketches out a locomotive, or at least the best approximation of one that he can do in a short time. "Is a locomotive. They burn coal to heat water, and the steam turns the wheels." His pen circles a few times around the locomotive wheels, as if showing how they turn.
Adding a couple basic cars: "The locomotive hauls the cars down the tracks. It could take you across the entire Continent in a day."
Bold of him to assume she associates grass with ground. Luckily, she's read enough travelogues — and absorbed enough secondhand accounts of Shinovar — to bridge the gap without comment. She understands what the sketch is gesturing toward well enough. In any case, how the track is laid in the ground isn't the true fulcrum of his explanation.
No, it's the locomotive that holds her fascination.
Something massive and mechanical constrained to a single, deliberate path. Her gaze tracks the line he's drawn, following the rails with quiet intensity. Like Urithiru's lifts, she thinks, writ large and horizontal. Trading freedom for momentum.
She leans in, chin settling into her palm, attention wholly his now. And remarkably not interrogative. Instead, she's absorbed.
"Remarkable."
And already her mind is racing ahead. Extrapolating. His world's Fracture would have rendered such infrastructure untenable, right? The way Roshar's Desolations would wipe out whole swathes of progress at a time. She looks back up at him. Eyes filled with a hunger reserved for good ideas.
"And these 'cars,' did they carry passengers? Goods? Military supplies?"
Her eyes are steady on him, and Verso feels his entire body fill with giddy warmth. It feels wonderful to be the sole recipient of her attention, even if it's only as a conduit for what's really holding her attention: trains. It's rare that Jasnah doesn't seem like she has five hundred other things on her mind, plans and concepts and ideas rattling around in her brain at all times. Even when she seems interested in what he has to say, he usually still has to share her mindspace, and as previously noted, he doesn't enjoy sharing. To be the only occupant of it, even for this little while, is thrilling.
He would do anything to keep it going. So, the words tumble out of his mouth as he attempts to keep her interest: "We didn't really have a military," he explains; war had never been a thought in Lumièrans' minds until the war on the Paintress. "But passengers or freight, yes. Back then, there were people living all over the Continent. More places to go."
It ought to raise alarm bells: we didn't really have a military. And, to be fair, it sorta does. Jasnah's expression crinkles and contracts with brief disbelief. What place doesn't have a military? Conflict is one of the few constants that can be relied upon in this (and any) world. Surely. Even if there were no near neighbours to war with (or to keep from warring with) then at least Lumière required some form of internal armed force. Did it not?
Those questions are quickly banished by his continued explanation. And she asks a few more pointed questions about how the trains work. How the routes were planned. But she does inevitably circle back to the initial spark:
"And you had — models. Of these trains." She taps the current drawing. "Is this one the...O-gauge?"
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Satisfied, nodding, she leans back against the desk's edge and busies herself with unrolling and refastening her safehand sleeve. Although — storms — she misses the white.
"Next time," she decides, "I'll soulcast the colour. Less mess."
It's hopeful. It requires her Surges to be restored.
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"Good idea," he agrees, despite the fact that he has no idea what soulcasting his hair will really entail. Is it dangerous? Does it hurt? He'll find out when it happens.
Then—
well, his hair was the whole point of her coming over, and now it's done. He doesn't want her to leave, but he doesn't know how to ask her to stay, either. So:
"...Well."
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It occurs to her he might be urging her onward and out. His hair was the whole point of her stopping by, wasn't it? And now it's done. She doesn't want to leave, but she doesn't know how to ask to stay either.
So. Once her sleeve is buttoned again. Once her tolerance for the silence runs dry and she realizes she really ought to say something. Once she glances at his window and recognizes how high Nomon is in the night sky, hanging large and blue over the middle-distance mountains.
"I'll give you back the balance of your night," Jasnah announces — pushing off his desk and heading for the door.
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He trails off as he hears his words overlapping with hers, retreating back into his shell as soon as he'd left it. Obviously, she has more important things to do. Books to annotate. Marriage laws to review. Wars to worry about.
"Oh— no, yeah, of course." To his credit, he doesn't let (too much) disappointment seep into his voice. "Another time."
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"Another time," she promises. His surrender makes it easier for her to do what's right rather than what she wants.
And she does intend it as a promise. It's just — hers is an ever-shifting pole of priorities, and it's hard to guarantee that any one individual (even herself) will ever position higher than the packets of paper waiting for her back in her study.
"Use the spanreed if you need to reach me," Jasnah nods at the kit she'd had delivered to his room earlier in the day. "And I'll do the same."
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It's a joke. He gets it. Really. In fact, she's being completely rational. Any reasonable person would support her focusing on what really matters. A good friend would, too, so that's what he does.
Verso stands, opening the door for her to step through.
"I'll free you from your suffering," he says, dry. "Good night, Jasnah."
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"It looks good," she says, measured and sincere. "Even without the white."
If it looks a touch closer to Hoid's preferred iteration of the Queen's Wit, she refuses to linger on the comparison. She gives her farewell instead and makes the slightly-too-long walk back to her family's floor, to the familiar austerity of her own rooms.
Time passes.
Not dramatically but in the incremental way of habits adjusting under space and familiarity. She tries to strike a more tolerable balance for him, if not for herself. She no longer requires Verso's presence at every council or coalition meeting, but neither does she consign him to the margins. It's a small, intentional correction. A gradual retreat from treating him like — by his own phrasing — background furniture. And in the meantime, there are one or two nights where she stays in his room until the sun threatens to rise.
A week later, she's perched on a stool in the usual coalition chamber, a notebook open on her lap and a frown firmly in place. The notebook is Shallan's.
Verso arrives without having been summoned. And so she doesn't immediately know why he's here. But when she looks up, the frown softens — just a little — before she can help herself.
"Come," she says, beckoning him closer, because she knows he'll appreciate this even as it frustrates her. "The girl still cannot pay attention. She's doodling when she should be taking notes."
She rises and turns the notebook toward him. Between the bullet points and careful summaries are small portraits — politicians and generals rendered with uncanny precision. A page back reveals a looser study, half-finished, unmistakably Verso himself, caught mid-sentence as he spoke to someone out of frame.
Jasnah exhales, equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration. Fondness, even.
"I should speak with her."
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There is, however, still a lot of Jasnah. He doesn't particularly mind. Seeing the corners of her mouth soften is nearly as good as seeing her smile, and it makes the inside of his chest feel all fluttery like how it used to when he was sixteen and asking a pretty girl to dance and stepping all over her toes out of nervousness.
The 'doodles' Jasnah shows him are good. Better than good. Shallan has such art talent that it makes him wonder just why she's under Jasnah's tutelage instead of furthering her craft, although he doesn't dare say it in front of Jasnah. He especially likes the one that resembles him, and he visibly brightens when he sees it, flattered to be her subject even in a quick sketch.
"I used to doodle all the time during class, and look at me," he says as he leans over her, craning his neck to inspect the art. "Valedictorian, if you've forgotten."
Understandable that she would! It's been at least two weeks since he's bragged about it.
"Doodles help keep the brain engaged. And a creative mind has cross-applications," he points out, annoyingly. "Plus, she has good taste in subjects."
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Either way. She assumes a Valedictorian might be something like that — so his claim makes her wonder about the seriousness of scholarship in Lumière. She eases past the bravado with a nod and a quiet yes, yes, good for you.
"They're going to end up in the official records," Jasnah grouses. Because somehow the devoted historian in her won't suffer actually omitting something from the primary source — and surely this will be a trove for some future academic to unearth. But! "She really ought to think twice before sketching Sebarial with his finger up his nose."
Even if that was indeed what Sebarial had done. Brilliant entrepreneur; horrific manners.
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"It's an authentic representation of life in Urithiru from a direct source," he says, smugly pleased with himself for coming up with such a fancy-pants argument. "I'm surprised you of all people are advocating for the sanitization of history."
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Jasnah stares at him — but there's a glimmer of something in her expression. Concession, maybe. Like she knows that on some level he's right. Even if she'd argue that her present needs are more pressing than someone else's future passion. It's all a bit meaningless if they can't manage to survive the next few months.
"However," she hedges, "your argument is a good one. I'll keep it in mind when I do speak with her. At least she's come a long way from simply scribbling And then Dalinar said something everyone agreed with — progress over perfection."
With an idle flip through the notebook — perhaps more interested in reminding herself about an earlier point — she doesn't look back up as she says: "There's a carafe of pink in the foyer. I imagine you passed it on your way in. Pour a cup, please."
A flipped page. A thoughtful hum.
"And one for yourself. If you want."
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So, when he returns and drops her cup off on her desk, he sniffs the pink and takes a careful sip. It tastes— not bad, but definitely not like wine.
With a sigh: "I miss real wine."
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Well. She makes do. She'll work wherever she finds herself.
Without looking up, she reaches for the cup and — and, yes, she hesitates. It's hard not to. The habit to soulcast anything handed to her runs deep. She's done it for years. But with a steadying breath, she takes a mouthful of pink wine and swallows without even tasting it.
Her little moment of agita overcome, Jasnah tunes back into the conversation once he mentions...something? Something about wine? Her echoic memory kicks in and she straightens to take the bait.
"There's likely a pitcher of blue out there, too, if you'd prefer."
Erroneously assuming that real wine (in this case) simply means actually alcoholic.
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(Yes, there are strawberries on Roshar. I guess.)
"...What else do you miss?"
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He misses playfighting with Monoco like unruly puppies and being called an idiot with complete affection. He misses Esquie's preternatural ability to tell when he was upset and offer a hug. He misses being Alicia's only and therefore favorite brother.
After a moment: "Coq au vin. The opera house. My model train set."
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"You — model train set?"
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"Replicas of trains. I had this one— an O-gauge hand-painted tinplate live steam locomotive—"
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But, storms, she has no idea what he just said. O-gauge? Tin? Seam locomotive? She understands hand-painted. Is this an artsy thing? All she knows for certain is that she likes the look in his eyes when he dives into the topic. It's...endearing. He's endearing as he rushes into a loose, gestured demonstration.
Jasnah sets down her cup. She pushes her work aside. Verso has her unbridled attention.
"I know what models are," she redirects his explanation. "But you'll have to explain what a train is."
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How to explain in a way that makes sense? He's silent for just a second, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip in thought. Then he inhales, preparing for the explanation: "They're a series of cars on a railroad— uh, vehicles you can ride on that drive down tracks laid into the ground—"
He grimaces. It's hard to explain.
Holding out a hand: "Can I borrow a pen? I'll show you."
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For a moment, she worries he'll give up and wave his explanation off with something watered-down and unsatisfying. After all, it's his signature move. I don't know and I couldn't say and something like that. But, to her gratified surprise, he offers to show her.
This time, her smile stays longer than a flicker. Although her body language stays reserved as she reaches for the pen, sitting abandoned to her side, and then tips it into his hand. And if that didn't betray her eagerness, then perhaps it shows up instead in how readily she slides a scrap of paper over — flipped onto its back, so he doesn't have to share his canvas with some scratched-down arithmetic.
"Please do."
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"This is a railroad. Tracks of steel rails across the earth. And this—" He sketches out a locomotive, or at least the best approximation of one that he can do in a short time. "Is a locomotive. They burn coal to heat water, and the steam turns the wheels." His pen circles a few times around the locomotive wheels, as if showing how they turn.
Adding a couple basic cars: "The locomotive hauls the cars down the tracks. It could take you across the entire Continent in a day."
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No, it's the locomotive that holds her fascination.
Something massive and mechanical constrained to a single, deliberate path. Her gaze tracks the line he's drawn, following the rails with quiet intensity. Like Urithiru's lifts, she thinks, writ large and horizontal. Trading freedom for momentum.
She leans in, chin settling into her palm, attention wholly his now. And remarkably not interrogative. Instead, she's absorbed.
"Remarkable."
And already her mind is racing ahead. Extrapolating. His world's Fracture would have rendered such infrastructure untenable, right? The way Roshar's Desolations would wipe out whole swathes of progress at a time. She looks back up at him. Eyes filled with a hunger reserved for good ideas.
"And these 'cars,' did they carry passengers? Goods? Military supplies?"
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He would do anything to keep it going. So, the words tumble out of his mouth as he attempts to keep her interest: "We didn't really have a military," he explains; war had never been a thought in Lumièrans' minds until the war on the Paintress. "But passengers or freight, yes. Back then, there were people living all over the Continent. More places to go."
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Those questions are quickly banished by his continued explanation. And she asks a few more pointed questions about how the trains work. How the routes were planned. But she does inevitably circle back to the initial spark:
"And you had — models. Of these trains." She taps the current drawing. "Is this one the...O-gauge?"
She listens! She learns.
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