Aria hated the Gate of Ranks the moment its white arches rose out of the morning haze.
Tens of thousands of visitors crowded the great plaza, their banners snapping above a river of heads and hats. At the far end the Colosseum loomed like a second mountain, its tiers already roaring with ninety thousand voices.
"Observation, nineteen thousand souls are waiting to be stamped, the mean delay is four hours," she said from his shoulder, "each brand carries twelve hundred hooks."
"You're making the face again," Hajin said.
"I do not have a face."
"You have a thin line where your mouth goes, like you bit a sour plum."
"That is a diagnostic expression, not a face."
Ash lunged for the cyan ghost with both sticky hands, passing straight through her glowing chest with a squeak. Aria folded her arms and rendered a look of deep patient suffering, hovering one full inch higher than before.
"Duck is all fog," Ash told everyone, deeply betrayed.
