The Saint of Nothing Yet lets out a ruffled sigh like the choppy waters of a troubled pond, then steps outside, closing the front door with a gentle click behind her. Her breath mists in the air, but the sunshine manages to warm her cheeks. She can handle a few minutes out here.

"No." She shakes her head; a strand of her pinkish hair pulls free and flutters across her cheek. "I don't think I can explain my way out of this. For one thing, I don't know what there is to explain, or what I'm trying to get out of, which presents some obstacles, don't you think?"

She leans her back against the door and folds her arms over her chest, looking up at Apollonia with wrung out weariness.

"If I'm being honest, it would be a nice change for someone to explain something to me," she says, then brings her hand up to rub under one eye, lifting the wire frames of her glasses with her knuckles. "You seem to have a lot you want to say. I know the look. What am I trying to get out of?"