She's almost tempted to spit out a laugh herself, and instead there's the quick upward quirk of her lips, the small indication that she might want to in spite of herself. She's left busy wondering then, for just a moment, precisely what kind of girl her conversation partner might be when her tone slips toward serious, and she makes that comment about the unwanted ones.

The dungeons are not an area of their new surroundings that Gideon has had the chance to explore yet. She'd poked around a bit, examined her new sleeping quatres with something close to awe; she may be sharing a room, but that lavish bedroom is a distant cry from her hard, cold cell back on the Ninth, or even the more opulent but drearily decaying quartres she'd shared with Harrow on the First. She'd also espied the library - filled with paper books, demonstrating the immeasurable wealth of their strange new benefactors - but hadn't lingered long. Few things could be more mind-numbingly boring than ancient tomes and their equally desiccated contents. That had brought her to the dining hall, where she's been hedonistically spoiling herself ever since.

There's the slight narrowing of her aureate eyes, the chicken leg held suspended somewhere between plate and mouth. "The ones that weren't wanted?"