She finishes smoothing the bed-linens into place, the bed neatly made now and set to rights as best she can manage it. At its foot, the clothes he'd worn the night before are neatly folded and stacked on the corner, with the nightshirt she'd borrowed likewise folded atop them.

Susan straightens and turns to him as he comes to her, and looks down at the wild-rose color of her shirt then back up to him with a warm smile. "It's the color of the wild roses that grew on the Drop," she tells him. "I were always fond of it."

And it's a far, far better shade of pink than the poisonous glow of Rhea's glam, as far as she's concerned.