Atticus watched, curious despite himself, as charcoal moved over paper. He’d never seen an artist at work – aside from the reclusive Cam who didn’t seem to welcome the attention. Would he be allowed to see the sketches? Caught on paper... fool, it was not the reason either of them were here.<br/><br/>He could hardly keep the teasing, seductive words from his lips as the knight spoke of getting a better feel of his lips. The words pressed against his tongue,  like honey and bile. But Sir Bereck had made it clear he didn’t want sultry. Did he want it willing at all?<br/><br/>He managed to hold himself relaxed, managed to keep the unwanted suggestions spilling out. The man spoke on after a hesitation, as if he too had been waiting for the lewd comment on Atticus’ tongue. His mood changed, sank, turned dark by... disappointment? Memory? Perhaps. His topic suggested it was so. It felt strange to be applauded. “I’m not so sure it is my presence rather than Master Ryan’s political influence that keeps the tragedies at bay. He is not a man to be crossed lightly. My role here is mostly throwing the drunkards out and insuring that debts owed the House are paid.” He had other duties, but it cost nothing to make the world seem less dire to the man. Especially when in reflection of the high echelon the Teahouse served.<br/><br/>Atticus let his single-eyed gaze move around the room and nodded slightly. “Fiona has a very warm and open soul,” he murmured in agreement. He didn’t add that it took someone very sheltered and naive to have such a willing exposure to strangers. “Somehow she can translate that into frills and furniture. Not a skill I have, as you probably noted.” His fingers toyed absently with the pommel of his sword, his attention on the window behind Nicholas. “It must be freeing to have a skill that allows your soul to speak.”<br/>