It had taken Irene forever to get ready today. Part of it, naturally, was that every time she'd gone to put an earring in or decide whether her hair was better suited up or down, she'd had to pause to stifle the rustling of her own clothes so she could hear whether someone was -- talking to her? Just a whisper, here and there. And she knew no one was in her flat besides Clementine, who had not yet proven to have the gift of speech as of yet (and besides, she was very busy with a chew toy), but it was enough to make Irene paranoid to double-check the cameras and such before she left.

But, of course, the other reasons she'd dallied with her appearance were a little more complicated. How did one dress for a trebuchet date? What did she want to risk having be-pumpkined? And -- while Irene was confident now in the fact that Amaya seemed to find her just as attractive in denim as she did in stockings (possibly more so), she still wanted to look nice.

So, anyway -- right on time, but definitely not early, Irene sauntered up with her hands in her pockets. She'd settled not only on the jacket, but on a pair of skinny dark-wash jeans that tucked neatly into the boots she was fairly sure could withstand any pumpkin (or sand, or water, or ketchup, if that came back) casualties.

"You've been busy," she commented in greeting, having to smile at the clear effort Amaya had put into their setup. All just for a love of trebuchets, certainly.