Thrawn stood patiently in the courtyard of the Royal Museum of Art. People walked past him, eyeing him suspiciously or surreptitiously depending on the individual, toward the entrance of the building. He was used to it and had long ago let it not bother him. He almost thought of it as a game, how stolid could he be in the face of interactions? How far would others push those interactions so that he had to retaliate?

They were few and far between nowadays, those interactions that caused him to have to do something. But the looks—the looks had never stopped.

In the distance he saw a mass of golden hair piled atop a small woman's head in an intricate design that still allowed quite a bit of it to flow down her back. She wore a dress with a lace bodice that hugged her body, the skirt flaring out down to her feet. She smiled broadly when she caught sight of him and all but ran up to him.

She stopped short just in front of him, beaming. "Hello!" she exclaimed, then jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. The movement was so quick, that he might have thought he imagined it if he didn't still feel the warmth of her lips on his skin.

"Lady Luxsolaria," he said with an inclination of his head.

She took his arm without being asked and steered him toward the front doors of the Museum. "I expect you to tell me all about the artists," she said excitedly.

He had been genuinely surprised when he received her invitation to the opening of the Expressionist Exhibition at the Royal Museum of Art. It was nestled in one of her handwritten letters, after her exposition on the local gossip of her cohort, an admission that she was worried about her son in the Royal Military Academy, and an expression of her desire to see him again.

But there is a catch, her letter had said after she'd made the invitation. You must invite me to tea onboard the Chimaera regularly, as your schedule allows. I shall fade away from the lack of intelligent conversation in my life if you don't.

A rather bold statement, but not one he was willing to deny her. Because if he was honest with himself, he missed the conversation with her as well. He missed…her.

Approaching the door, the doorman held out his hand, his face stern. "Tickets," he said dully.

Sola held out her gloved hand with two datacards in it. The doorman took them, inserted them one by one into his datapad, looking each of them up and down dubiously before handing them back to her. "Welcome," he said. He motioned to the door.

They stood for a moment, waiting for him to open the door for them as he had the guests before them, but when it was clear that he wasn't going to, Sola made a small movement toward the door. Thrawn, who's reach was a good deal longer than hers, got to the button first, pushing it to cause the doors to slide open with a swish.

"Thank you," Sola said brightly, though whether she said it to Thrawn or the doorman was unclear. With her arm still hooked in his, they entered the museum, the air conditioning hitting them both with a quick blast in the doorway. Her hair fluttered in the false wind, falling back down her shoulders as they made their way inside.

Almost immediately they were approached by a Twi'lek balancing a tray of glass flutes. "The tour has already started. Champagne while you wait for the next one?" he asked in a bored voice.

Thrawn plucked one up and handed it to Sola, who took it with her free hand then took one for himself.

"That's alright," Sola told the Twi'lek. "We'll show ourselves around."

The Twi'lek looked at her like she'd just insinuated he sit on an egg but said nothing as he walked away.

She held up her glass to him. "Cheers!" she exclaimed. He clinked his glass just below hers and took a sip, watching her as she took hers. She locked eyes with him and he noticed that the matrix in her iris darkened in the low light of the room as her pupil expanded. She finished her sip and the look in her eye became mischievous. "Shall we look at the exhibit backwards?" she asked. "So we aren't trailing behind the tour?"

"An excellent suggestion," he said with a tilt of his head.

So they did. She looked at him expectantly with each new art piece as he described attributes of the artist to her. She seemed absorbed in his words and the art. She had let go of his arm to allow him to gesture to certain parts of the paintings. She didn't laugh, or sigh, but stood watching the paintings, his hands as he gestured, his lips as he spoke, his eyes when he didn't.

"How do you do that?" she asked after the 8th painting.

He took a moment to answer her. He could hear talking from the tour around the corner. "I don't know," he finally said. "It's not something that I can explain. I've never been able to explain it."

For the first time in his life, someone nodded in understanding when he explained his inability to explain. She had a serious face, her brows raised. "That's how it is with me and people," she said. "You can't explain it because you just know."

He regarded her for a moment then nodded his head. That was exactly how it was. He just knew. If he studied something long enough, the knowledge just came to him, like mist parting to reveal the sharpness of a previously muted object.

He stepped toward the next painting and gestured to it. "You tell me about this one."

She took a deep breath, placed her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl, and regarded the picture. "The artist is a linear thinker," she began. "I can tell because the lines are all angular and sharp. They are not a passionate person, the colors are too muted, they all have a grayish cast in them. I am going to guess that their art is more a technical study than a creative technique." She turned to him expectantly, a small smile on her face.

"And?"

The smile vanished from her face. "And?" She turned back to the painting and licked her lips.

The guided group came around the corner, the sound of their talking suddenly filling his ears. It must have caught Sola also, for she spoke a little louder. "The subject matter is very personal?" she ventured. "That's what makes this a good painting, the mixture of the two?"

He smiled. "Very good."

She laughed then, for the first time since they had begun to look at the artwork, and linked her arm with his again. She glanced toward the approaching group and tightened her grip on his arm, as if they were threatening to sweep him away when they finally crossed paths.

"You like to impart information," she told him. "It pleases you."

"Sometimes," he admitted. "It depends on the information and the person to whom it is being imparted."

"I hope, then, that the artwork and the company please you tonight," she said. She turned away from him, as if she did not expect him to answer.

He paused, before telling her, "It does."

She glanced back at him smiling, a touch of heat coming to her face.

"Luxsolaria!"

Her smile faded, replaced with a slight wince. She twirled toward the voice, which came from the group approaching them, slipping her arm into Thrawn's. "Stars," she swore.