Omnes adsint, quamvis dementi, quamvis nefasti.

The Socialite only gave a sly wink, refusing any promise of honest information or answer at all. Always gathering information, never showing more than a single card from his hand at a time. Yet another angle, yet another perspective, yet another secret. The walls required slow, careful chipping to suggest even a glimpse of the heart on the other side and the Socialite refused to give any tools with which to chip. Instead, they glanced around the room and found the Tailor, beginning a short conversation with them before the class could start. Guarded, secretive, with a mask of openness that gave one the impression they knew more than the Socialite allowed. But there was no time to dig deeper. The Emissary was coming.