It was difficult for Theodore to believe much in blood status mattering much, ever since he'd gotten any experience as a healer. Everyone bled, regardless of what blood ran in their veins; everyone felt pain, everyone died in the end. A morbid way of looking at it, perhaps, but it had been an interesting life lesson, for him. In the end, it was Tracey he cared about, not her background.
And she was right, that this room was very him. "It used to be more child-like, once," he said. "There are pictures and such in the closet." He gestured toward it, but wasn't getting up to go and find anything, at least not yet. She was talking, and he wanted to listen. Her description made him smile. "Whose dolls were they?" he asked, curious. Gifts that they hadn't liked, perhaps, or maybe they'd belonged to her mother.