Satisfied -- for the short term -- that Wysteria is less likely now to flinch and cast his serpent friend down the stairwell than she was a moment ago, Richard withdraws to let her handle her as she will. He tacks on a warning in parseltongue that deters a speculative fix of beady little garter snake eyes towards Wysteria’s sleeve as he does so. Don’t.

“An overseer.”

There’s no particular inflection to indicate how he might have felt about that arrangement, or feels about it now. It’s the answer to her first question; he lifts his chin to look up at her at the second, and furrows his brow.

“I -- suppose.”