The inner robe came off with the same economical motion he applied to everything — not performed, not theatrical, the unhurried removal of a garment by someone who had no particular opinions about the performance of undressing. The dark fabric fell.
"After I'm finished with you," he said, in the same tone he used for the cultivation assessments — the dry, matter-of-fact register of someone conveying information they considered relevant — "I'll need one of you to help me with something tonight. Small task."
Both of them were sitting up.
Both of them were holding the torn fronts of their dresses against themselves with the specific, urgent, slightly futile grip of women who understood that the engineering situation had become unfavorable and were managing it with available resources.
"What task—" Sora started.
"What are you 'doing'—" Wren said, at the same moment.
They looked at each other briefly — the rapid two-person communication again — and looked back at him.
