Glory forced herself to smile as she very gingerly accepted the vial of viscous green fluid. She reasoned that it was probably impolite to ask him what the concoction was made of. She would try to deconstruct it at home.

She was now standing between two vampires and... a man who had recently been on fire? A tendril of Drake's hair still appeared to be smoldering. She avoided making eye contact with him, but very carefully removed one glove, pinched out the smoking strand, and slipped the glove back on again. In the very short moment during which her hand was bare, it could be glimpsed that the heel of her hand was thickly calloused, her fingernails permanently darkened with soil. This was not the hand of a delicate woman. She concealed it, this rough and dirty hand, as quickly as she could, re-establishing her finely cultivated patina of southern finery. 

"Thank you very much," she said to Atlas. "I appreciate this gift. I'm sure you worked very hard on it."