Atticus’ shoulders relaxed visibly and he nodded before lifting the half-gone cigarette to his lips again. The acrid smoke, though weaker than true Dragon or opium, was having an effect. Easing his mind just enough for him to think. Master Ryan might punish him, but he wouldn’t go so very far with it. There was no other guard at the House. And the things he’d said that morning, about never making Atticus leave...<br/><br/>He let out the held smoke, and snorted at the comment. “Fiona didn’t look like she wanted company. And it’s dirty to smoke in the House. The maids would take turns boxing my ears.”<br/><br/>His mouth twisted into a smirk and he turned his gaze away from the pale haired youth and said, “I’m sure there are worse fates. I have no objection to being subjected to such a torment. It would be...” His eye flicked back to the young man and grinned, “...refreshing.” And that wasn’t a lie. Especially after the dark, unwelcome and stilted conversation he’d had with the artist.<br/>