The Tailor's knuckles barely made contact with the glass before the window was opening, the person on the other side unfamiliar, rugged, and severe. Their face was turned away, speaking with someone out of view of the window. "I'm certain Tularemia will be back with help any moment now."

"I don't need to be watched," came Mori's voice from out of sight. "Not only am I a grown man, I have a doctorate."

"That you haven't renewed." The person in the window finally turned and pelegin eyes met a matching shade, bright and experienced and too clever by half. It suddenly became clear that Tularemia was not wholly Mori's stoat and, in fact, fitted more perfectly with this person than anywhere else. The stranger blinked once, then called back to the unseen Socialite, not taking their eyes off the Tailor. "One of your stalkers is here, dearest."

"Firstly, they're suitors, not stalkers, and secondly, if it's the Struggling Artist, tell him where he can shove it."

The stranger hummed. "Actually, this one seems far too young. What can we call you, lad?"

Tularemia held tight to the Tailor's sleeve, promising that if they fell or fled, the stoat would follow and continue to pester them.