The swordsman’s attention sharpened tangibly as Anel stuttered over his casual question about clients. His words were fast, nervous, and he stood up as if he couldn’t bear to sit, couldn’t stand to be even that vulnerable. Something had happened. Something with Lord Aldrich, perhaps. The boy couldn’t seem to say his name.<br/><br/>Atticus stayed kneeling, not wanting to stand. It would only aggravate the youth, though Anel hadn’t seemed at all different to his per usual, except for making a scene an hour or so earlier. He didn’t even sound drunk, though he’d gone through at least one bottle of spirits. Perhaps he hadn’t really drank, but pretended to, so to use it as an excuse for his outlashing... though why was he outlashing? And why was he so... nervous about having another client?<br/><br/>He would have brushed off the stuttering and the uneasy tension that he now could sense pulsing under Anel’s skin as just the natural reaction to the idea of more pain when the memory of it still burns fresh, but married with the tantrum? He was sure something... unacceptable... had happened. The question burned on his tongue like a hot coal, but there was something fragile about Anel. If he was too direct, the boy might leave without taking the salves, and might even do more damage to himself, or the House. Atticus would seek out the others, Master Ryan and perhaps Fi and Zara. They had been in the garden with Anel, hadn’t they?<br/><br/>“Apply the one with the blue label first, then the green. And... wear something you don’t mind ruining. The grease is hell to get out of silk.” He extended his hand, holding the two small bottles in one palm. “If you like them, you can keep them. I think you’ll make better use of them.”<br/>