There is a moment, a long one, where Ignatia looks the man over. Anders, Narcisse said his name was. Warden, mage, narrow of face. Someone that keeps track of the world beyond could put things together if they so wished. After one last draw of the pipe she murmurs to her scullery maids. "...We need a moment alone, girls. Take the pipe and bottle to the bunk, yes? I'll make sweet cakes for you in the morning."

Without so much as a word of complaint they sweep out, nudging one another with their elbows, commenting softly about a 'private fortune telling' but otherwise? Unconcerned. Only when the last of them have gone does Ignatia lean forward her voice low.

"If it is not the war, the demons, or the neighboring estates that have your people? Follow Clara, Eléonore's valet." There's a familiarity and a fondness to the way she speaks the Comtesse's name. "Someone that nervous? Hides something. And she is not normally this wary around visitors. If anything she is practically cheerful- but the moment word came through that Inquisition was coming to call? She ran the maids double time to clean every inch of the cellars and the guest suites. Eléonore assumed it was to make a good impression but- she hides things, that girl. I have long thought her to be behind the late Comte's death but proving it?"