"Yes," Bastien says. Cheerful, but there's flint underneath it—a bit of don't ruin this for me, John. He stands up. If there were not extra wooden chairs nearby, left at angles by their last occupants at an empty table, they're there now, bringing the sense that they have been there all along with them. Bastien stands to bring them closer, gesturing along with introductions on his way. "Vincent Suchet, John Silver, ah—"

Who?

"Randall," Vincent says. He has a smile like he's watching a performance, the only entertained audience for whatever show everyone else is putting on for him. He always has. "I know you."

There's some flint beneath that as well, for the spirit beneath Randall's face. Don't ruin this for him.

Bastien lifts the chairs, one in each arm, to carry them to the table without any screech and clatter. "We're talking about Robiquet," he tells John. "Vincent thinks he will help us with Prince Cellini if kiss his ass enough."

"No, no," Vincent says. "Kissing his boots should be plenty."