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Renee is contemplating going home.

She is doing this contemplation by being at the lakeside, where the larger boulders are, standing on one hand and bending her legs back towards her occiput.

Hey, it helps her think.

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Somebody claps his hands, behind her.

"Thou art an acrobat!" a man's voice says. "There is no marvel, is there not, that is not found here?"

Renee opens an eye, which was closed, and cranes her neck to see him.

"Not one single marvel missing," she agrees.

"For 'tis a marvellous place that hath all which any man desires," he says, grinning.

"Yeah," Renee says dryly, "I guess it does. You find it recently?"

"Only some weeks ago," he says, "and lo, it holds all marvels, and the loveliest wenches!"

"Yeah," she says, quirking a smile. "Certainly some lovely wenches."

"And thou among them, as skilful as thou art lovely, to stand thus," he says, winking at her.

Renee just rolls her eyes. "Wasted effort, Romeo."

"What is a Romeo?" he asks. "So, art thou spoken for, wench, and wouldst not change thy mind when better men come by than what thou hast so far?"

She shakes her head. "Not even slightly, my friend. Not about to change my mind for any man."

"Thou claimest to be a virgin sworn, a nun or some such," he says, incredulous, "vowing to never know the touch of man, neither for wanton pleasure, nor gainful matrimony? I fain would not believe that."

He eyes her, shaking his head.

Renee cleverly does not fall over, despite laughing quite hard.

"Not a nun," she says. "And not a virgin, either. Do they have the word 'lesbian' where you're from?"

"I never saw a nun stand on one hand," Poins says, "so I did never truly think so. No men, and yet no virgin? From a Greek island?"

Carefully, Renee unfolds back into a decent conversational stance.

"Yeah, the Greek Island famed for being the home of Sappho?"

Really not ringing any bells?

"Was she not a poet?" Poins says. "I never learned old Greek, and e'en my Latin was shaky at its best. I never read her and so know not what thou meanst."

"Yep," says Renee, "she wrote love poems.

"To women."

"Indeed?" Poins says. "How very odd. Most that write poetry to women would be men."

"Or a woman who would just rather sleep with women than with men."

See what she's getting at, here?

"That is a thing that happens?" Poins says. "I know of men that do such things with men" -- himself included, on occasion -- "but women, with women?"

He tries to imagine whatever they would do.

Renee raises her eyebrows.

"Do you need to be alone with your imagination, there?"

"I do not think that --" Poins starts, then blushes as some image of two women unlocks itself within his mind.

"No. I apologise."

"Yeah," she says, accepting the apology at the same time as acknowledging that it was warranted.

"I think that it is very rare where I am from," Poins says, by way of justification.

Pause, as his brains runs up and pulls him from the brink.

"Or I have just not noticed it."

"Or maybe people just don't talk about it," Renee suggests. "I mean, where I'm from it used to get you killed."

Or otherwise hurt.

She still has the scar.

"Men that are caught at it come to a dreadful end," Poins says, "and yet, it happens, in the shadows where they are deepest, and 'tis known. The women must be even more secretive, and quieter. Who knew that women can keep secrets so?"