"Maybe. But he's not hard to rile up. And you're not wrong." But she still sounds unhappy, and they're just. Not great with the words thing. And their head still really hurts.

So they drop their hand from their forehead, fish into one of their pockets on the left side of their coat, and pull out a particular opal that they're very familiar with, now. Set it on the table. "Palette cleanser," they suggest, pushing it towards her with one metal finger. Should she touch it, she'll get this charming memory.