She allowed herself to be dressed with every bit as much care as that with which she had approached her ablutions. “Simple,” Mist commanded her servitor.

Berea was old for a mainline human, with a plump elegance that Mist admired. She was not a small woman, likely never had been, but carried herself with a grave sense of presence that any matriarch of the Familia Majora might have envied. Ruddy faced and dark haired, with eyes a deceptively soft hazel, this woman’s fingers knew the contours of Mist’s body almost as well as her own did. This woman’s hands understood the fit and fall of her clothing better than her own did. This woman’s inerrant taste brought her to perfection when perfection was called for, while remaining kind enough to simply leave Mist alone when solitude was called for.

“Even an Interlocutrix has her favorite clothes,” Berea had remarked once, putting away a scandalously tattered shift that Mist found very comfortable.

“Bea,” she said, suddenly moved to words.

“Mmm?” The woman’s mouth was full, pins held just so between her lips.

Pins, thought Mist. Two thousand years of spaceflight, and we’re still using pins that Lady Lovelace would have had no trouble recognizing. “Thank you,” she said.

“Mmm?” A different inflection, lifting further into the interrogatory this time.

“What comes next may change the world. Or it may change nothing at all. But I fear I shall never be the same woman I am today. So, I thank you for all your loyal and loving service.”