The Fool is momentarily taken aback by that flicker of melancholy that he glimpses on Rutile's features. He doesn't press them for details, earlier conversations with Padparadscha present in his memories, if not fresh. Instead, when his new friend lifts up their glove to remove it, he watches with interest.

The glove comes off and--oh my.

"How beautiful," he exclaims softly, unthinkingly, then comes back to himself to give Rutile a look of apology. "Forgive me," he adds, chagrined, and gestures again to their fingers. "I don't mean to overstep my bounds. But it sounds marvellous to me, this craft of yours, where you are at once physician and artisan. I have acted as such only once before in my life... though my patient was rather recalcitrant."

He smiles some to remember the liveship Paragon, who held the Fool--as Amber--in his large, living, wizardwood hands while she worked to reshape his broken face into the image of someone she could love.

A moment later, he looks to Rutile's eyes in some concern. "Does it not cause you pain, to perform work of this kind upon yourself?"