Sancia, he thinks. Sancia with hair of spun light, he thinks, and smiles a reptile smile.
Good legs, too. You could be her father. And? Your point?
Rising, he catches her hand to kiss it. "Le blason de mon père béat," he says. "My father's, mademoiselle. Although-" he makes a show of eh, what can you do?, rubbing his neck with his free hand, "there was no room for keys and triple crown. Not with my more than modest skills."
Button-up shirts, he thinks. Made to be un-buttoned, they are.