At any distance, Bastien looks like a man it would be perfectly fine to keep a cello from. He moves his head back a fraction of an inch from Yevdokiya's skewer when it passes—looking a little amused, a little helpless. Both of those things carry into his tone, too, when he says, "Sssure," slowly, like maybe he'd been hoping something would swoop in to save him from being a good sport before he had to commit. "I'll take a little."

And now he's committed. He will take a little. He'll bite where she bit if he has to.

"Is he soft to sob stories, this Bill Bravo?"