Lukas played appropriately spooked at the retelling of Mo's ghost story, with a roman candle kind of flare in his blowtorch blue eyes.
Ghosts? It sank in on a quick, follow-up swallow of rice wine. There was a suggestively amused kind of bob to brushstroked eyebrows from over the gaping snarl of the sake-stained T-Rex and a wry twist of lips in a sidelong knot when he brought the cup down to the floor. Did that mean that she'd punched the ghost? Or the ghost had punched the mirror? Something was lost in translation here.
Reaching for her hands, loosened without a need for fair warnings, Lukas arranged her fingers with all the meticulous precision of Beethoven in his final sonata. Spirit, the grand master mouthed. Showing Mo the sign language spell first, and then waiting for her to follow.