Calvin watched, mesmerized by the master's gesture, how the oil slicked along his heat-pinked skin. "It's a common enough tale," he said, taking his seat on the chair again, the towel folded in his lap. Common enough in Aurelle, anyway. A story with a moral about trusting foreigners and not doubting kindness even from the unlikeliest sources didn't seem as if it would gain a lot of traction in the greater Clovennian consciousness.
He nodded slowly when the master came around to the idea of telling his sister. That wasn't likely to go well. Not at all. She hid it well -- very well -- but he could see, thanks to his Gift, that Miss Rosier was far more fragile than she appeared on the surface. This could shake her badly. "In a bit," he suggested. "When you feel centered."
Calvin folded his hands over the towel and breathed in the scent of the oil, still lifting from the tub, mixing with the steam. "It's beautiful, that smell." He said softly. "It reminds me of barn dances and long nights in summer."