Her study of him is very keen. It's as sharp as a pen point, as fixed as the press of her fingers is patient. Wysteria spends a great deal of her day unpicking strange puzzles, and unpicking Ellis isn't so different a prospect. And so there is an urge to stand here in the shade of the wall and to do it—to poke and prod at him, and to turn him this and that until she has made sense of all the things she can see and draw safe conclusions regarding what she can't.

It's a mercy that, after the briefest hesitation, she concedes:

"Well, I suppose that's fine then. A very temporary reprieve—that would be acceptable," she says. And then, lest anyone become too delicate she adds, "But only because you've described it as a kindness to you. You should know I wouldn't allow anyone else to get away with such nonsense, Mister Ellis."

With a prompt squeeze of his wrist, Wysteria turns her hand in his and frees herself. It's a absentminded gesture so she might brush some nonexistent dirt from her skirt and adjust the lay of the chains hanging from her belt with a soft melodic jangle of metal. She clears her throat once in the process, and then just as briskly crooks her arm once more in offer to him.

"Then let us deliver you to bed, sir."