Gregor is so used to tuning out background city noise that it takes him a moment to notice what's changed. No sound. Either Rosinante's enveloped them in a pocket of silence, or he's silenced the whole lake. Fairly impressive either way, most people can't manage anything close to that.

"And you're sure that's not magic?" He makes a very small gesture, no more than twitching a finger up, and draws the fallen cigarette to his own left hand. He holds it out for Rosinante to take. "They look the same to me."

A quick ritual, and a result beyond the normal. Intent and power. Magic. It seems very straightforward to him.