This was turning out to be an excellent distraction. Better than getting drunk in town and starting a brawl or going on an old-fashioned raid on the nicer houses in town. It had been a spell since she had done either, and it wouldn't do to get rusty. Or to go off when she was wound up.
Her eyes lit up with undisguised interest, knees bouncing on the ground in excitement for a good story. Her mother couldn't read when Briar was born, and it was heavily frowned upon for her to be taught. So she listened hard. And she began to evolve through it because stories work their magic that way. They build conviction and erode conviction in equal measure. Briar had always been malleable, like a fox or an octopus, and a little short on conviction.
Briar shook his hand, eyes lit up with amusement, letting the rough callouses on her's stay. They fit with the situation, certainly, and she had a feeling he wouldn't judge her for not being soft. "We've already met." Sort of. She met him but he hadn't met her, but who had, really? Briar liked knowing people but them not knowing her. But she stayed silent instead of teasing during his almost-story. Almost because it still didn't sate her craving. She switched to French without hesitation, "Were you a cohort then? I like some of his stances, anti-slavery and all, but rumor had it he made excessive use of the Guilotine?" The last bit was a question, curious on if he would confirm or deny anything. The man in question was slightly before her time, but still relevant the first time she travelled to France.
Actually. When she thought about it, she might have dug through one of his old homes. Oops.