Here at last that silver headed cane comes away from where it has been idly hooked at the railing. It's a reflex more than it is purposeful—a natural preparation in light of narrowing space. Maejyr Ralston is so very particular about who (or what) he allows within arm's length of him, and the habit is evidently so ingrained that it lingers here in this place where the bodily harm which might be done to him is entirely a figment.

(There is no need for him to be easily broken here; yet the reservation is as persistent and reliable as his suspicion for any unanticipated compliment. Does a blind dog better scent a change in the wind?)

His smile is all teeth.

"Should I hold out for more flattery first?"