“Mm.”

Richard busies himself, and his contribution to the conversation falls into foley work -- the nudge and rustle of letters further from the edge of the table, the slosh of whiskey across the bottom of his cup, and the thunk of the bottle. He draws out a chair and takes a seat, not looking back at her and her hand-to-cheek until he’s mostly settled, still adjusting skinny seat to skinny seat.

There’s no outward change; he’s as mild now as he was upon his initial arrival. His eyes are kind, his nose defines his bony face, and his whiskers are closely kempt.

“My name is Silas.”