Small as the demonstration is, the brief whiff of manipulated magic prickles at the back of his neck. Puts a tang on his tongue. Makes the teeth at the back of his mouth ache like he's woken up after grinding them. Without thinking, he adjusts the set or his jaw—briefly presses his tongue against a molar, and—

Then stops, rearranging the set of his teeth and his face about them. It a stubborn sort of pride. A heel digging in in protest of whatever the more immediate response is

(He can feel it tight in his chest, but it will be some times before he decides what to call it. If it's resentment or jealously or something else.)

"Clearly not," he says, laying a hand on the cane and adjusting how it lays across across his thigh. "I've seen children do better. I'm surprised you weren't encouraged to improve."