Art's question answered itself almost immediately — Valerian was far too quick-witted to be on any opiates yet. He slid off of the arm of the couch and onto the cushion of it, and raised his glass of whiskey at Valerian. Arthur had gotten used to mostly avoiding any of his relatives, in the last year and a bit of his life — but Valerian was relatively harmless, a little younger than him and generally non-threatening, and obviously not entirely at-ease here. This was fine, because they were on Arthur's turf.

"Oh, this is exactly my sort of place," Art said, with a crooked grin. "I could practically give tours of it."

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