The black-masked consierge scurries over to Dahlia's booth.  Without speaking, he extends one gloved hand and snuffs a golden candle by the entrance to the booth.  Dahlia notes this and stands, reaching to the back of Her neck to unhook the silver necklace there.<br/><br/>And, just like that, She's a she.<br/><br/>Dahlia steps off the dias and lowers her face gently, her posture having converted to that of a proud servant, and she receives her orders from the consierge who, suddenly, seems more authoritative than her.  She curtsies-- the act strange without her wearing a skirt, and walks forward with her hands hanging limply by her sides, moving only gently with the broad sway of her hips, her feet crossing with  a click, click, clicking of heels with each careful, precise step.  She kneels upon the bare floor next to their table, her feet crossing under her and her hands folding behind her head tilted down but held high, breasts thrust forward.