Barrow Fields synecdoche

now a shameless frozen reference?

As the young man stammered out a response, Kitsch felt contrition creep into the edges of her subconscious — as it always did when she lost her tongue in front of another. The pearl anguished over the tumult of emotions that constantly gripped her youthful mien, but as mother and father bade her, such fracas should be concealed: don’t feel it, don’t let it show. Kitsch, unfortunately, hadn’t been born with the congenital elegance of her mother or the critical mind of her father and required much guidance in the ways of leadership. When left to her own devices, Kitsch nurtured a rather hedonistic soul… She knew the etiquette and decorum, as the conventions of Saio Baile had been carved into her brain at a young age — but without advisors and other benevolent figures to hold her feet to the proverbial fire, such lessons were lost on the girl. Out here, Kitsch tried to do as she was instructed, to conduct herself in a fashion fit for aristocracy, but she was constantly left with the lingering resentment that she was doing something —everything—  wrong.

Her question for Arlo hadn’t been entirely rhetorical but also held the unspoken air of a demand. Yes, she wanted him to be her knight in shining whatever! Amongst her despair she was able to locate enmity quite quickly — the wastrel was not only sad, but frustrated that this problem, her lost-ness, had not been remedied by now. It just seemed like one long game of hide-and-seek; something not to be taken seriously because it was at its core, utterly absurd. It was impossible for the stracciatella girl to see the hopelessness of her situation, but still she felt the urge to ask after her family; so wishing to find fortune upon the words of a stranger.  “Well, Arlo from the north,” she followed after his stammered identification, her voice suddenly feeling quite small.  “Have you ever heard the name Saoi Baile?”