River's ears swivel in Annabelle's direction. States? As in like, a specific collection of them? Or as differentiated from a frontier? Or anarchist communities? The realms of the gods? The realms of the dead? Unformed chaos? The absence of matter?

Robert isn't here haunting River on Marrow Island but she can still hear his voice saying that she's overthinking this, so: "The style back in Greenwall is black with sugar, got popular a couple monarchs back and then stuck around 'cause it's a good, simple way to make coffee...well, and the Farmers' Guilds would riot if we tried anything else." She grins, a sunny and bright expression, an absolutely genuine attempt to express the punchline on the joke. "Thank the gods they let the beekeepers in, but...anyway. Are you from these States?"