In the same way that Lucius would not deign to root around her house (while she's still in it, anyway), he isn't going to ask her to open her shirt (in this context). Pride demands he be told what he wants to know. It works in her favour, sort of.

"You'll find the wards in place, as requested," he says, first, casting a look away from her that only tosses straw-pale hair a fraction over his shoulder. "It's been some time since I've done such for anyone apart from myself. Now, I wouldn't believe it a stretch of the imagination to guess that those who once knew me, where I am from, would marvel at the notion of me performing magic for those who cannot wield it themselves."

He takes a sip of her scotch. "We all make our little compromises, here. I saw you fall, and the result. Your spine should be shattered, dislodged from viscera turned to liquid beneath your ribcage, to say nothing of your brain matter still a smear on the sidewalk last we left. I looked.

"With these images still quite fresh in my mind's eye, do you believe I should accept that you simply fell in someone else's blood?"

Just curious.