[ Her place of provenance is depicted as a heaven for the saved according to her own description, yet the emotion of anger and its corollaries are generally seen as incompatible with heaven, for how can negative emotions take root in the soil of perfection? These theological quandaries do not fall under her purview as the disciplinarian of Christmasland, yet they open themselves to the scrutiny of a perceptive observer through Millie's discontent: is she vexed by the current state of things alone and is otherwise the picture of equanimity or has something gone awry a long time ago?

Her fingers tap the table in sequence from her little finger to the thumb, soundlessly but with an anxious energy that presages another outburst at a too-tender a line of questioning. He is in an unenviable position with the flesh-eater on edge but without a precise notion of what might exacerbate the situation; the typical conventions of polite conversation seem insufficient for the task of navigating her personality safely.

Her fingertips stop, arresting their dance. She has noticed his probing gaze and fixates her pupils on his as if to announce her awareness of such concentrated scrutiny.

She flashes a fleeting smile as though recalling a fond memory. ]

We bloody one another without pity in the Big Glorious War. But that's there. Here...

[ Her temple motions to the reality at large. ]

Here children die. They suffer. The essence of this world says I can die too. It's the nature of the beast.

[ She does not know whether she might perish from a grievous wound in the Real World, but an educated guess can be made.

Millie pushes herself upright, green fog lapping at her boots. ]

Let's exercise that caution before a grieving widow interrupts our tea party.