Hauling in all of her skirts with her — deep red velvet, matching layers of petticoats, all glimpsed by the armful between folds of her fur-lined cloak — Gwenaëlle glances at him directly, momentarily drawn to pause by (in contrast) his (incredibly predictable) state of dishabille.

Well, and what was she expecting, banging on his window at this hour.

(Not Clothilde.)

“Well, generally,” she concedes, heroically, instead of saying something incredibly stupid. “But when something falls into your lap, what sort of idiot passes it up because it isn't your division? Adenet's mistress,”

in several senses of the word,

“took to me. It merited finding out why— it's rarely that I'm so irresistibly charming. For both our sakes, better to be discreet about it— ergo—”

She shoves her hood back, loose curls tumbling around her face and shoulders and the lighter-weight fabric of her gown's construction there. “Silver has said I could be useful that way, before.”

So has Byerly Rutyer, but it's slowly become easier to believe from John Silver; he understands her better, she thinks.