Alvin nearly winced at the tone. Each time he saw her it got more and more polite and further from the excited whispers of the museum where he had seen her first after Sloane's death and they had sketched together and reminisced and remembered the good times. Whatever had happened at Christmas had stained their blossoming friendship and Alvin, still stuck in his own dark little world, did not know how to get back to where they were; or if it was even possible. The easy sort of correspondence he had come to enjoy had shattered and Alvin wasn't sure if he should, or could, fix it.

"Glad to hear it," he managed, passing Dahlia a wan smile. She made herself busy with whatever it was that she was doing and Alvin wasn't sure if he was grateful or annoyed. Perhaps they could have kept it to an easy polite conversation with somebody overseeing, but that was not to be the case. "Your arm is all healed up, then?" Alvin had felt guilty about that. She had slipped because he was an idiot and it haunted him, just a little bit, just as much as Christmas. Alvin wasn't sure when he'd become so unreliable, or lost in his own head, but he could make a guess if needed. Idly he scratched the back of his head with his good hand, wondering just where he was going with this.