“Yes – yes, I know,” Savino replied gently; he was suddenly too tired to offer much of his usual enthusiasm when it came to meeting people he had already made a point of hearing about, in his own kind of society research. And Mr. Prewett, in spite of his Sight, had not struck an especially approachable figure thus far – he was not a recluse, because Savino had seen him from a distance upon occasion, but he did not often seem to enjoy anyone’s company, and Savino hadn’t yet decided how best to approach him.
But this – falling down flights of stairs and seeming fragile, faint and frail and delicate of constitution – was not exactly the impression Savino had wanted to make. On anyone. “Savino Zabini,” he introduced, as he passed back the man’s hip-flask, in case his name meant anything to him (though often it did not, particularly if seers did not share his academic obsession with divination); so more quietly, he added, “I’m a Seer too.”
He inhaled lightly again, narrowing the field of his gaze to the cigarette between his fingertips to centre himself again. “‘This sort of thing’,” Savino echoed at last, steady enough to digest the phrasing with a spark of his usual curiosity. “You mean stumbles and falls?”
(Hopefully he did not mean fatal illnesses, anyway.)
But this – falling down flights of stairs and seeming fragile, faint and frail and delicate of constitution – was not exactly the impression Savino had wanted to make. On anyone. “Savino Zabini,” he introduced, as he passed back the man’s hip-flask, in case his name meant anything to him (though often it did not, particularly if seers did not share his academic obsession with divination); so more quietly, he added, “I’m a Seer too.”
He inhaled lightly again, narrowing the field of his gaze to the cigarette between his fingertips to centre himself again. “‘This sort of thing’,” Savino echoed at last, steady enough to digest the phrasing with a spark of his usual curiosity. “You mean stumbles and falls?”
(Hopefully he did not mean fatal illnesses, anyway.)
