"They are only slightly smarter than rocks," Kostos answers, but under the dour insult there might be some faint fondness of his own. Without detaching from the tree he's leaning against, he rolls a little bit in her direction so he can see her properly. "You should really sleep."
She shrugs back at him. "Not exactly that easy, is it. No one ever got commanded to sleep." She pauses for a moment, then amends, "Except by hypnotists, I suppose. But people who pretend to get hypnotized are just faking, anyway."
Then she tilts her head to the side slightly. "Have they got personalities?"
“Barely,” Kostos says, but after a moment he relents. “They are mostly curious. Excitable.” He pokes his chin toward the nearest one, the one that’s humming at the tree bark. “That one is interested because the tree does not move. And that one—” whirling in circles overhead with increasing speed “—is on thin ice, if it does not want to go back.”
She puts her elbows on her knees and watches a moment. Then - "Do you like them?" Almost immediately, she wrinkles her nose, because: "I know that sounds stupid. But - you know what I mean. You treat them like they're real things."
He does like them. He understands them; he knows what they're feeling, no guessing and no lies, and for a few years of his childhood they were frequently the only company he would tolerate.
All things he would rather shove his feet into the fire than say out loud. He'd prefer to eye Kitty like he's waiting on an explanation for why she might think otherwise—one he does attempt to prompt, if not ask for outright, with, "There were—spirits where you came from. You said."
"Mm." She settles down a bit, placing her chin on her knees, watching the wisps as they float. "Yeah. Not really like these, though. The ones back home - they'd talk to you. They all had...life, and intelligence, and personalities. Free will, even if they were never allowed to use it."
For a moment, she hesitates. Then - Well. It's Kostos. Kostos is all right. He looks at these spirits, little tiny bits of nothingness, with affection; he nurtures them. It's all right to talk to him about this sort of stuff. "Have you ever met Bartimaeus? He's sort of an expert on them. On spirits. You might ask him sometime."
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Then she tilts her head to the side slightly. "Have they got personalities?"
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The whirl slows to a chastened drift.
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She puts her elbows on her knees and watches a moment. Then - "Do you like them?" Almost immediately, she wrinkles her nose, because: "I know that sounds stupid. But - you know what I mean. You treat them like they're real things."
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He does like them. He understands them; he knows what they're feeling, no guessing and no lies, and for a few years of his childhood they were frequently the only company he would tolerate.
All things he would rather shove his feet into the fire than say out loud. He'd prefer to eye Kitty like he's waiting on an explanation for why she might think otherwise—one he does attempt to prompt, if not ask for outright, with, "There were—spirits where you came from. You said."
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For a moment, she hesitates. Then - Well. It's Kostos. Kostos is all right. He looks at these spirits, little tiny bits of nothingness, with affection; he nurtures them. It's all right to talk to him about this sort of stuff. "Have you ever met Bartimaeus? He's sort of an expert on them. On spirits. You might ask him sometime."