Maybe it's that she's drunk, or perhaps this moment is just awkwardly suspended in time, but the shifts in Sonia's expression unfold with uncomfortable clarity, playing out a slow scene. First she wrinkles her brow and opens her mouth for a scoff, but then the words sink in, painfully slow, and for a moment she almost looks stricken. Her eyes, narrowed to slits, go wide and dark, her mouth half-closing, but lips still parted enough to draw in a sharp breath. Her shoulders slacken, her crossed arms falling into her lap like a marionette with its strings cut. She has the distinct sensation of her ribs caving in.

For a moment she can't look at him at all -- not angry, not haughty. The flush to her cheeks, the awkward swallow and her sudden dry mouth, those have nothing to do with the wine. But she forces herself to look back up at Byerly, because as mortifying as this is, she can't bear to just speak to her lap. She clasps her hands together tightly and looks back up at him with her dark eyes, trying for a slight smile, but it quails and falls prey to the chagrin.

"That was sort of the novelty of it," she says, unable to drum up any false cheer or cheek. She can't even quite keep her voice from shaking. Because it is a novelty. The others, they're strangers, every one of them. None of them really knew her, and it all hung on that. And now she sits here, drunk and feeling colossally stupid.