She busies herself with the setting aside of the pan, the shedding of her mittens, by unlooping her scarf and tossing back the edges of her capelet. It's clear that Wysteria doesn't intend to linger long; by the tell-tale folio all stuffed with papers, she must have business somewhere in the city. Nonetheless, when the seat is drawn out she does indeed eventually accept it.

The lid of the wax's jar is popped unceremoniously free. The contents are chilled enough that the sweet fatty smell is reduced to nearly nothing until Wysteria scuffs a wedge of the stuff out onto her thumb.