[Ophelia doesn't jump to answer the summons, but she does move quickly. Even without praise, to be relied on even for something so small scratches a deep itch to be useful. It has nothing to do with the switch or its lingering brand on the back of her legs (though it does help. It really, really helps).]

Of course. [Her head bobs; there's a glitter of her own golden qilin scales in the firelight that shifts as she moves to stand behind the sofa.] Ma'am. [There's sincere deference in her voice, but it lilts up slightly at the end, an implicit question in it: Was that the right one to say?

Ophelia dresses well, and she's used some of her leisure time to better understand the fashion zeitgeist in Sumarlok especially, but she's always prioritized practicality over beauty. Little things, like the stars embroidered into her eyepatch, are indulgences. She has to ponder sincerely what would look nicest as she tenderly combs Lilias' hair into place. Painstakingly gentle, Ophelia sometimes runs her fingertip or knuckle along the scalp beneath the hair, gradually sectioning strands out before starting an orderly Dutch braid along the side of her head.]

It's been a while since we've last met, hasn't it? [The last time had been much messier - a bloody, magical adventure in the middle of an unforgiving wilderness. But the snow, it would seem, is the same regardless. It would be inappropriate to mention the new additions to her appearance, but at the very least - ] You look really striking tonight, ma'am. [She hasn't considered that she might be speaking out of turn; there have been no instructions indicating otherwise, but the correction would mortify her regardless.]