A smile. "Always nice to deal with someone who knows what he's talking about. Any national origin of preference?"
He nods. "Indeed. Twelve years ago, in the Flying Grayson's last European tour, in the show commissioned by the University of Doomstadt and opened to the public." There would have been no way Mother would have afforded tickets on her own. A flick of his wrist, and he activated a button on his discreet gauntlets, and a computer touchscreen made itself available alongside the table they were sitting at. He brought up images from the security footage of the performance. There are the Graysons, their co-performers... and there on the sidelines, in the crowd, is a woman who... well, Miss Mirela Vernard certainly looked the stereotype of a Romany herbalist. And beside her, her tiny son in overly patched clothes that they'd clearly been working meticulously to keep clean and intact.