"Oh you know, nothing too personal," he said, shit-eating grin growing wider, faster as he talked. "Just this pretty young thing for the Porter's Digest, its Prench edition at least, stopped me in the streets and begged for anything I could tell her about the human from Griffonia. And, well, how could I not take the opportunity to talk up my good friend in the most wildly extravagant manner possible? I mean, for instance, I did reveal the real reason you always cover your hands was because they were always so fragile, smooth and delicate and were considered immensely intimate and private in your culture. Quite unlike minotaurs. You had a magical soft spot in the small of your back, you smell like lawn clippings and daisies in the rain, and a host of other things I made up as I got progressively more drunk. You know, small things like that."