I -

( Does it? She can't write home with ... this isn't news, this is a scrap that her father will drop everything to pursue when who knows what they might need of him. They can't have him chasing down ghosts he might not find. She can't have that. He can't earn back whatever it is he lost when her mother died by expending himself on a fool's errand like trying to find Gervais Vauquelin on so little information--

What does it fucking matter. She didn't know the man. Let her father keep wallowing in his grief. He deserves to. )

Yes, ( finally, not sure that she means it. ) Thank you.

I never knew him, really. He sent me gifts, sometimes. I have a dagger to match his.

( There's a beat, and it occurs to her; perhaps Julius had seen his? She never did - she fusses with her pockets and the hidden sheath and produces a small, jeweled dagger that, thanks to Wren, she handles less gingerly than she might have done. Carrying it is ... uncomfortable, but she grows accustomed, and so. )

My lord had them both made to my uncle's specification.