Beneath her skirts — the multitude of them — he will find the gartered holsters that don't always actually connect to stockings (or those soft boots she wears on special occasions that look like stockings) but do tonight, and in each of them sheathed a stiletto, and Gwenaëlle flexes her freed toes. She has thought a great deal about his hands, mostly practically,

mostly not allowing herself to even wonder,

there is something to it, watching him kneeling between her knees, the warm weight of his hands sliding over and above the edges of her stockings. Something that quirks her sideways smile, almost visibly considering whether or not to give him a detailed answer.

“Five,” sounds a little like relenting. “You're at the last two. Both boots, and the corset. It was six,” has the air of an arch tease, “when we were dancing.”

Is she going to tell h—

No, she looks too pleased with herself. Secret sixth knife.