You see, I believe he'd donned a green and well-decorated coat in order to pass muster,

is Tony's ongoing explanation, a patter of talk that is more served to herald their arrival than to build lore into his lie. The thump of footsteps, oddly, gets quietly once they've descended the stairs, but then present all at once, smart soles ringing against marble and then muffled by carpet.

Tony enters the space first, one hand gesticulating, the other pulled into a fist and pressed low against his own torso in preparation for, well, whatever happens next. (Does the drapery look a little different than it did before? And a turn of his head clocks a shadow just right there. Oh, jesus.)

But I grew suspicious when I asked as to his whereabouts, and he mentioned an aviary, which of course we don't have.

(Well, there are worse plans.)