“Thank you, Emma,” Atticus murmured with a small nod at the reminder of the time. Perhaps the line up was for that man. He would have to keep an eye on who he sequester in case something untoward happened. Like with Anel. Pox rot it all, he was no good to anyone falling to pieces. Being distracted. His gaze tracked Emma as she left, then looked at the second, laced pot as Lessard nudged it towards him.<br/><br/>It would easier if he drank it. Worries would soften and his mind wouldn’t work so hard. For a while everything would seem better. He’d never been much of a drinker, the allure ruined by the gin habit of his first pimp. He was a slave to different pleasures. A little help would be appreciated, but Atticus had never learned when to stop. “I think not,” he said after a moment, picking up his teacup. He took a sip, then pulled off a glove to add a squeeze of lemon to it. “I fear I am not very good with letting a little help stay but a little.”<br/><br/>He pulled off his other glove and curled both hands around the fragile cup. “I wish I could share such confidence. These past months have been a pleasure to live.” He snorted and smirked darkly. “A dream. Well, here’s to waking up.” He lifted to cup to his lips and drank the steaming liquid. “I do appreciate your advice and your company, Lessard, but please. ‘Atticus.’” It was not said harshly, rather distractedly. It wasn’t that he disliked his given name, simply that Atticus was more familiar to his ear.  “Thank you, for listening, and for being a sane voice.” He was still unbalanced, but felt less like the world was crumbling. Master Bl –<em>Mister Blithe</em>was not taking tea with Master Ryan. It was someone else. It wasn’t him, so why was he acting as if it was. Idiot.<br/>