The engineer mimicked Mad’s grin, picking up the cup of rum and cradling it gently in her hands. ‘Dancing a jig, to wring out the bells on her bracelet,’ she said softly, as if in fascination, ‘but nobody could hear it, because of the cannons she fired at you.’ Dawn stared at Salafield for a moment, as if she was trying to figure out if he was joking or not. Soon enough however, her eyes widened and she beamed, as if delighted by his admittance. She was unable to copy his wicked grin, but she didn’t mind. The thought of him dancing was as amusing as imagining Mad ducking away from a cannonball. She didn’t know if it was true, but she knew that her imagination wouldn’t prevent it from making it so. She sipped the cup, peered at it, then sipped again, this time with some comfort. No spikes this time. She looked up once Mad mentioned Cobble’s complaints about her, let alone her existence being known to Lord Albion. Dawn resisted a sigh. How troublesome. Sunset dancing against the walls. A mask that was never meant for her. Clementine that she wished to sink her teeth into. Limbs that were broken and wrong, because they were meant that way. A touch that burned when it grazed. She blinked. 'Builders, yes. They had no hands to make the houses, so they had to wear balloons.' There were spikes in the rum again. So she took another swig with a contemplative frown. ‘Edit Tagline,’ she said, saying Edwin’s name wrong with a broad grin. She poured more drink into the cup and took another sip. Better, yes. ‘What’s a surface hunter?’ she said, staring at the two inquisitively.