“And furthermore–”
Mima’s speech hangs mid-paragraph; instead of the next word in sequence, there comes the audible ktunk of a gear disengaging somewhere. A vestigial reflex draws a hand to its throat. It tries again, and once more for good measure, and then stamps indignantly and snaps out the first gesture of a typewriter-perfect string of sign.
“Cheating, Mima.” The witch taps it reprovingly on the forehead, clack. “I know I said one thousand words for the day, but you have to consider the spirit of the rule as well, yes?”
Mima glares, weighs the frustration of being unable to finish its thought against having something more fundamental in its faculty of language uncoupled, and folds its hands behind its back with all the austere sulkiness a doll can muster.
