He flicks a glance to where she is working his grip off her arm, and releases her promptly so as not to engage in some petty tangle for physical assertion that would be largely unnecessary. Lucius' stare down his nose at her is as cool and colourless as ice chips.

"You may do whatever you like, but I would like to understand how a woman can survive a fall of some hundred feet from the sky and recover well enough to lie about it," Lucius says, and though these words are inherently challenging, he is inherently understated. Temper is a slow burn beneath the surface, that initial self-deprecation of being played for a fool slowly turning outwards.

He might have expected and preferred 'chastened' over 'irritated' at being caught, anyway. "You were dead."