He'd like to match her stare for stare, hold her gaze all the way through, but it's impossible: he bows his head a moment to hide a spreading smile. "Too good to be true," he says. Crisply, in command of himself. His fingers close around the rim of his glass, sweep it to his lips. His smile takes on a knowing edge; something faintly mocking gleams in his eye. "This is the wondrous city of Baedal. There's no such thing."

He toys with his drink--he's about due for another--before addressing her again, tone softer. "I won't ask you to trust me," he says, "but can't you trust what you want?"