Richard Dickerson

The brooch is accepted with the delicacy of a soft mouthed dog taking a bird into its teeth—all fingertips, the palm of her large hand cupped as if wary of saliva remnants (Fade-touched or otherwise). Her inspection of the piece is less circumspect, turning it in a stripe of moonlight to examine the setting. It's pretty, though she has little use for a yellow stone in her wardrobe.

"He must have told you a little of what his business was then." The brooch disappears inside her cloak. Fitcher flashes him an apologetic look. "I'm desperately curious."