A similar amount of disheveled, a coat abandoned to the back of his chair and a necktie removed and stuffed into one of the pockets, Marcus' slouch in his chair is about as relaxed as anyone will catch him. A few ales put away, enough decent hands of cards traded back and forth, and beside them, a fine dusting of ash that'll be caught up the next time someone drags a broom across the floorboards.

Bastien's question doesn't interrupt Marcus' quiet assessment of his hand, or the journey of a half-finished cigarette to his mouth. He keeps the latter thing between his teeth as he comes to a decision, selecting a card and turning it face down on the table. Discarded.

"It wasn't," he agrees, taking the cigarette back into hand. A glance up, across, back down. "We decided."

A short answer, maybe. Except when he asks, "Do you have siblings?" it doesn't sound like a deflection. A trade.