"Again? Was he drinking?" Loupe grumbles, finishing his belt. Edgar does step around to shift the pelts on his shoulders and coat, straightening them out.

"He's always drunk, I have never seen him sober. Or anything other than dementedly cheerful." It's disconcerting. "Loupe is no werewolf. He is savage and wears furs and hunts an tan the hides- but he is no werewolf. Narcisse is just-"

"Jealous." Loupe replies, rolling out his shoulders. "Of the Comtesse giving me more attention than him. The wine, yes, that is well and good, but the perfumed gloves? That is where the real coin lies and she knows it. He knows it. And he is scrabbeling to be relevant."