Calvin had been hoping that the master would let that drop. Change the subject. Talk about... something else. But he was pointed in his memory, and Calvin was sure to look back at him this time, his focus drawn less to the master's face than to the anger in his aura, so unfamiliar in its particular shade of red. A red that he couldn't help but find a little sinister, in its own way. Master Rosier didn't mean him harm; if he did, he wouldn't have defended him so stringently against Belmont.
But that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? Why had he done that? And would he regret it, later? Calvin couldn't help but think that this was likely, given the fallout that their match was likely to cause. Certainly, Belmont would come after Viola now, if he hadn't already. Certainly, he would find other ways to drag misery to their doorstep like a cat with a still-twitching carcass. Calvin had offered himself as a target, had played his role. But he hadn't expected the master to fire back quite so irrevocably. What if, not so very long from now, that wave of anger and resentment he could feel so clearly was directed at him instead?
"Robor Morgan," Calvin said softly. "Yes. They... met in Clovenne. Some tour Robor Morgan was doing with a traveling acting troupe before he joined the clergy. I'm not sure of the full story. I... can't even remember exactly who he was playing that night. But apparently Robor LaRouche didn't recognize him when they met the second time, that's how good he was. He wasn't even wearing a wig or an extensive costume he just... had held his face and his body so differently that the illusion was nearly perfect." A small smile then. "Robor LaRouche always said that they fell in love through letters. Sheaves of them. They wrote each other nearly every day for years."