Atticus’ gaze turned sharp as Nicholas talked of the dark, cruel deeds that could happen to the vulnerable and desperate. He disliked hearing this privileged pervert act and speak like he knew how the lower classes worked, full of pity and hopelessness. No wonder he was the court heartbreaker, Society would adore his sympathetic sounds.<br/><br/>It rankled Atticus. “We do what we must,” he said, his tone clipped. To be aware of the issue and use it for his own betterment...<br/><br/>What was he expecting? The knight was a client. He’d never understand.<br/><br/>Then his attention turned to Fiona. The man seemed determined to aggravate, though this seemed unintentional. Atticus hadn’t realised the points Nicholas made, and it made him feel like he was distanced again, alone again. “... that’s most likely so. I admit I can’t read inanimate objects as someone of your learning.” It was a very small barb, but he couldn’t help it. It was difficult to keep his mood neutral, when the client – use his name – Sir Bereck  tugged so at subjects so deeply imbedded in his chest.<br/><br/>“A curse as much as a blessing, then? It might be just for it to be so. Skill should hurt. Difficult to attain.” He thought of his long, punishing training in the mornings. Not many put that effort in, day in, day out. He still wasn’t as good as he could be.<br/><br/>He blinked at the man as he told him to take a new position, straightening and pushing one hand through his curling hair. A different pose? One he was comfortable with. When was he most comfortable? That was easy;  in Master Ryan’s office, watching him work. He stood up, glancing at Nicholas to make sure it was all right, and leant his back against the wall, his left hand’s thumb hooked in his belt, his head hanging down just a little. “Is this all right?”<br/>