"Poppet," he said, trying out the word on his tongue. "That's a new one. I think you're right."
Silas' assessment of what they were all thinking just made him smile. He did so like a man who didn't beat around the bush. "Varian," he said. He was a celebrity, surely, but a celebrity amongst a particular set. The name with the face might conjure up a tabloid cover or an ad for a concert, or it might conjure up nothing at all, and he didn't bother to tack his last name on.
He watched the woman stretch up and up and up in a way that made his mind delve into distinctly sleazy places, and he didn't bother to hide that one bit. Her dismissal of Silas got a small eyebrow raise, and he wondered briefly if she felt threatened, muscled in on. No, that wasn't quite right.
Varian was more than used to people taking shots at him. That had been his life, after all, and likely would be until the day he died. By now they passed right over his head - or seemed to, anyway, with a totally flawless lack of negative feeling on the surface. "Don't try to tell me you don't want to find out," he said, leaning forward, head dropping close to hers, words plucked out smoothly as instrument strings.