[ The door shuts neatly behind him, and he follows, eyes drawn in to the negative space. When they'd first moved into the Necropolis, he'd marveled at that, Clio filling her room to bursting with a life's accumulation of knicknacks and books and brightly colored settees, and his like this. More room than he'd known what to do with. (He'd taken smaller quarters, after.)

He'd rather be talking about that, than this.

He shouldn't have another cigarette. Doesn't want to test the steadiness of his hands just now. In place of either, he lets out an exhale, bracing. ]

You did something on the field that— [ Bones warping beneath stretching skin— ] That they don't teach in Circles.

I don't think anyone else saw. [ But he had. And hadn't said a word, even when they'd spoken of heads and platters. Might never have said a word. ] But I need to ask you why you learned it.

[ Not how, or where, or from whom. Why. ]