His tangent could so easily lead into another — she's nearly starting it, we'd absolutely fucking never sell that to the mages — but he startles her into a laugh with at your first convenience and she flops backwards into the nearest pile of cushions in her conversation pit, pushing a hand through her hair.

“Ouais, sure, ” she says, gazing up at the ceiling and the finish on it that she'd spent several hours of her life going over the fine details of with the best that ducal money could buy. “I don't know if my uncle's was with all the others the Inquisition found, but he was missing for so long, probably not? Maybe?”

She squints her good eye.

“He showed up about when it was all kicking off. You'll have some of his records— Gervais Vauquelin.”

(Somewhere, there's a form he'd prepared for consenting to the study of a removed anchor limb.)

“I wasn't in the thick of it with mages, then.”