Quickly, Mafyyil hums a few notes at every mothling present, ending with the one in Remi's hair. She resists the urge to double-check her own hair for stray entangled mothlings and absentmindedly notes that the rhythm of the mothlings' greeting would make a nice pattern for a poem. She shelves that thought; she doesn't have time for writing right now.

Mafyyil doesn't bother to inquire about Remi's wellbeing: Remi looks upset, as always when the topic is moths-used-as-transportation. She unsuccessfully tries to peek at Remi's notes, wondering why anyone would work even at a party. "Can you understand what they're saying?", she asks instead, thinking that when music-talking at moths she wouldn't want to accidentally insult anyone's mom or anything.