( He considers the question for a moment, his head bowed in silent contemplation. He's no longer looking at the aurora, but at the way his hands fiddle with the handle of his lantern, broken in one spot. A piece of it had chipped off during his fall, but he doesn't pay any mind to that. Rosalind's statement leaves him whirling, and he glances back up at her, alarmed and bewildered. What prostitute? He can think of none notable enough to mention. )
no subject
Who are you talking about?