“Pardon,” Wyndle said, “but you’re staring right now.” “Do you think,” Lift said, “he likes poetry?” “Who doesn’t?” Wyndle said. “Ooh, I’ve written seventeen poems about the delightful nature of Iriali footstools!” “Shut up,” Lift said. “Gav. Do you think he likes poetry?” “I … don’t know what that is,” Gav said. “Yeah,” Lift said, still watching Sigzil. Then she added, “I don’t either.” “What?” Wyndle said. “It’s just a term I’ve heard girls say. Somethin’ about words’n’shit, right?” Wyndle sighed. “Mistress, please don’t use such crude terminology.” “That sword ardent does it.”
