Maybe it's the wine in her throat, warming up the area beneath her collarbone. Maybe it's just wishful thinking that she could blame this on alcohol that's hardly had a chance to kick in yet. Regardless, she laughs.

"Careful with those puns, brother, you're going to turn into Joly on me." And she can only handle one Joly. Courfeyrac's competence has been a blessing in this Arena, a load off her mind when his companions are Captain Overbite and his sheltered wife and a young man who melts into a puddle of terror at the sound of thunder. She's quickly come to see why, in spite of their many divergent traits and interests, Courfeyrac was one of Enjolras' two right-hand men.

"It's like being born again, in a way? I mean, maybe not for you, but for most of us - we come into this world, Panem, whatever, with nothing. We don't know anyone and half of us don't speak the language. It's not just pressure, it's...forced adaptation, I guess." She pops open the top of the lotion. "Smells like roses. Of course."