So that's that, then. The little flare of hope is snuffed quickly as it came. What's a bit funny is that she's in precisely the same state she was before - previously, she assumed Nathaniel was dead, and now she assumes Nathaniel is dead. No change. Not really. And yet for some odd reason, there's something quite a bit colder about hearing the confirmation of his death, as opposed to simply assuming that it had happened. Odd, isn't it? No change in state, and yet something more leaden to it.

Well, she'll adjust to the certainty soon enough, she's sure of that. She adjusted to the uncertainty, didn't she? Soon she'll accept that her friend is dead, for certain and true, and that's that. And she'll learn to go about her day once more.

Maybe.

Because if Nathaniel didn't send Bartimaeus, then someone else did. And - And. And if Bartimaeus had come here of his own volition, and if this were a happy occasion, he'd have appeared before her in some truly spectacular guise. He'd have come before her as a fiery-winged angel, singing some loud obnoxious song about the spectacular cunning and strength that had allowed him to survive. Or maybe he'd have come as Ptolemy, so that she could have fallen upon him at once, overcome with joy at the sight of him. He'd have made some grand egotistical show of it, no doubt. Not come crawling to her as a raggedy cuckoo-bird.

So she closes her mouth on her tart comment about how she's not about to be distracted, especially not by that transparent a deflection. Instead, she lets out a breath. Presses her lips together. And holds out a hand to him to hop up into, so that she can carry him over to the table.

"I tried dyeing it once or twice," she says. "But I decided that I actually rather like it like this. Gray. It's nothing to be ashamed of, after all." Then - "You really don't eat, right? I can fetch you some biscuits. Or - bread-crumbs."