Cesare doesn't know the people Xellos talks about, or what their solutions would be. But he nods at something real. Even Miquel seems to have more of a life then he, lately. At least Miquel comes back from his strange missions beaming and exhausted, if a ghost can be that, exhausted. Miquel throws himself into Isabel's precious Georgian fauteuils, and his shape is smelling of smoke and appples, of the sea, the woods. Had a good day then, did you, Cesare would ask, sounding bitter.
"Do you think there is a market for what skills I have," Cesare eyes Xellos with a hint of humour now. Oh the irony.