The Socialite picked up on the subtle wording. To be found wanting, to be told again and again that the fault lies in you, that you're too odd, too excitable, too curious, too unafraid, too wordy, too silent, too un-squeamish, too attracted to the inevitable concept of death and the processes of the body, too willing to give it all, too willing to take your bleeding heart from your chest and present it open and pumping, too bad with words, too specific, too intrusive, never enough, never enough, never enough, never eno-

He blinked and the Tailor had asked him a question. He had only seconds to process what they'd asked and figure out how to respond.

With an innate calm, a blood-thick ease that washed over the conversation, even over top of the anticipation and tension, the Socialite laid his focus on the Tailor. "Of course. Anything."