<em>"I...forgive me Mr. Cross, for I fear it was I who offended you. Offense would be the last thing I wished from my lips in your presence. Desire burns though; if not carefully watched then it can mar, ruin and destroy. Better then to be but a bed of embers that makes all comfortable, soothed. No one seeks me for the flames of desire, but for the embers of soothing understanding. A banked fire, comfortable, servicing but not demanding of attention nor watching. That is my goal Mr. Cross, or it was after the loss of a particular client. And now the rain reminds me of what once was and I wonder if I have been banked too long. That is what I meant, by desire being foolish."</em><br/><br/>He gave a slight, acquiescing nod, to show he understood and he held no grudge. Desire for money had taken its toll on him, clear as day. Though Fiona, perhaps, was talking more of carnal desires. He wasn’t sure how to word it without causing her more hurt, but she did appeal to the sort of clientele too shy or too straightlaced to see Zara as desirable. Fiona had an old world charm that the dark haired whore lacked, though he saw too clearly how that might twist whatever knife was sticking in her gut.<br/><br/><em>"I did not say such things for pity or to make you scorn me; surely you must already so safe a life I have led, so pampered and cherished in many ways. I'm well aware of my luck, the blessing I have in this place. I speak too much, please forget my words. Next time you seek my help I shall make certain I am composed and offer naught more then you request. Perhaps you should go, I am not fit company this afternoon I fear."</em><br/><br/>He blinked, a small pinscratch of a frown tugging his eyebrows. Things had become so very tangled. And she was in such a low, grey mood; he could not leave her so. He pushed his hands through his hair, lips twisting down. Why was this so difficult! If she were a client or Mistress of a House, he could draw her out, away from her own thoughts. If he were another whore, he’d drop the accent and gossip shamelessly or share a stash of Dragon to make her cease these dark thoughts. But she was not, and he was not. It meant he had to guess, and he really hated that the most.<br/><br/>“Well, fuck me for a ha’penny an’ a poxy kiss,” he said after a stretch of silence, his accent no longer blue-blooded but the gutter slurry of the east dales. “Thine ‘ent got to worry, lass. Nothin’ a banked fire needs but a waggle wi’t poker t’ bring up the flames, ay?” He tilted his head and a playful grin hitching up one side of his mouth, the right side, the teasing tone making the innuendo clear.