"I've met a beaver or two who likes his beer," Susan agrees. She's running her eye over Janet's face - less assessing than usual, but still searching. Janet's cheeks are pink, her eyes bright. Some of her hair is pulling free of her messy bun. After a beat, Susan lifts the less-encumbered of her hands, dripping water, and takes her own turn in tucking an errant tendril of Janet's hair behind her ear. "And of course Bacchus and his maenads liked their wine, but they weren't Talking Beasts."