"I believe that even if they cared to be married—which I'm not sure that they do, which is evidently hardly the worst thing anyone has done in Thedas—, they might run into some legal difficulties what with the Enchanter being a mage and them being generally barred from marrying still. Technically Rifters aren't even meant to be married, even one with compelling legal reasons. Hence the current difficulty faced by your solicitor and mine. But no, I rather suspect they've little interest in the whole formality, as you said. Mister Stark"—all right, fine—"Has said nothing on the subject to me in any case. And if he's said something to any mutual friend, I'm relatively certain said friend would manage to fail to divulge it if they thought it might be in any way sensitive or secret. Or merely out of habit."

Wysteria's lone hand migrates absently back to her own hair drawn forward across her shoulder. She begins once more to comb through it with her fingers, not restless just—

Requiring some occupation.

"You and I and our respective work ethics are entirely different from what is ordinary. So obviously the length of your hair or the quality of your eyesight means very little with respect to the rooms."

Obviously.

"And even if it were a concern," she prattles on, picking a snag free. "I could hardly—" A short pause. Abrupt, as if for the first time in some moments Wysteria's attention has caught up with her mouth and discerned it might say something she'd not fully approved of.

"Well. It isn't one. And it's a silly hypothetical to begin with."