Against the cup's lip, his mouth twists. The crooked shape of it lingers even after the cup has been set aside and Flint's hand has fallen away off the edge of the table, slipping out of sight across a chair arm or tucked in thoughtlessly against his side. It leaves his side of the little table very bare excepting the cup and the empty bottle, pockmarked with errant scratches and the wear of scraggly wear of being sat out in the open air presumably through all manner of weather.

Below them, in the street, a door opens and closes. It isn't the one they're concerned with.

"It feels natural," he says. Not difficult, he'd said. Easy, he'd thought. But no, this is the one he means. How readily magic comes to his fingertips in this place. Reaching for it is hardly even seems necessary.

"Would you rather I say something different?"