[ Bastien considers her, then glances back at her notes—still folded, because he is reviewing her arguments in his head.

The best he might sincerely do is a plea for understanding and however much grace five years might have earned him, with the rest to be repaid on schedule. But supposing no one alive wanted to deal with his feelings was a good third of the problem, after all, and on the list of places he might attempt to challenge that supposition, "Wysteria de Foncé nee Poppell thirsting for a debate" is just above "large carnivores," below "highwaymen holding me at knifepoint."

He opens his mouth. He puffs out only air. An inhale, and he tries again, half-hearted. ]

A man of my professional capacities recognizes a sunk ship. I would have given it another few weeks at most before it was announced we were reducing our operating costs, relocating somewhere harder to find, and narrowing our focus to exclusively rifts and arcana and all of that, and anyone who was not of use in that area would be invited to contribute their talents to the Inquisition instead.

[ Maybe. It had very little to do with anything, regardless. ]