Vulnerable in her open concern for her family, and just as open inability to do anything for them, Hocus' lack of equal sentiment irritated Trisden. "An' you said I was obsessed with It," she grumbled, shifting herself back onto all fours so that she could fix him with what (she believed) was a piercing, judging glare. "They won't make it mad. Prosper knows better." Whether or not their father was as sensible, she would not gauge, mostly from fear that his skepticism would get him hurt. As much as the seeds of resentment were slowly germinating, she did not wish ill-will on her father, and likely would not for a very long time. For now, he was just an absent figure to worry about.

But all this was too much. Almost without thinking about it, Trisden cast about for a way to return the conversation to a less heavy one; she didn't particularly enjoy being unhappy about Hocus, not when he was so often her means of fun and being herself. "Anyway," she said, her expression melting quickly back into a smirk, "it looks like it's already made you into a cloud. Oh well."

Cackling, she bounced away, anticipating indignation.