River doesn't raise her cigarette. It rests between two fingers, held with the easy habit of a lifelong smoker, but she only lets it burn. The smoke coils upward in a thin white stream. It smells of rose petals and old clean leather.

She leans back in her chair -- comfortable as an armchair, despite the oak ladderback -- and tucks her legs up underneath her.

Time passes. A minute, an hour, a year.