She might’ve guessed more changes were in the air – should’ve sensed, should’ve known, but her head had been cluttered with the clouds, with the swirl of seasons, with death and rebirth. This one, however, is an embodiment of delight and merriment; a slight of hand that went with mercy and liberation, that went with kindness and amiability, not a wall closing but a door opening, and the Mender’s smile couldn’t have gotten any broader, wild and carefree and glorious to behold. “How wonderful!” It was wonderful, she wouldn’t have lied, not when her heart felt so light and incandescent, eager to allow another friend into the whirl of mists, caverns, and mountains. Imogen chirped too, once to Cassius, and another entirely materialized from Lena’s effective joy, bounding between Songbird and sonnets, and the nymph herself swung her features from one individual to the next, happy, harmonious, buoyant. “Thank you for bringing her here, Cassius,” winking, indulgent, maneuvering past all the boundaries of silence and stillness, a restless hymn tucked between her lips, extended through rhapsody, song, and arias. She even nodded towards the incoming Weaver, grin still poised, still elegant, still enduring despite being faced with the unknown, and then waltzing off to the side, as if extending her welcome into the wide-open meadows, into the earnest valleys, into the slide of ice, of snow, of summer evenings and dazzling hues.
 
She nearly asked her what prompted the occasion – because the Glazier had always been associated with the Edge and its fog, its mysteries, its enigmas, had come from its borders to create for them - and her curiosities were unsettled, building, brewing, colliding. But the fey didn’t chase them down, didn’t whittle, weave, or trace their outlines, allowing them to cool, to dissipate, as rapidly as the altering weather, forgoing intrigue for warmth and melody. “Of course!” The acceptance, the invitation, was hastened and brought forth without question; the other femme had already done so much for them, had already granted them their wishes, their laurels, their diamonds in the rough. She laughed again, content with Glasgow’s knowledge of crafting – after all, she’d constructed a greenhouse for them, and her talents were noteworthy, encased in shiny veneer, in amazing aplomb. “I’m sure our crafters would be happy to have you.”