Bastien takes a breath, watching Whiskey vanish around a corner. She knows the way. Keeping mysterious personal letters unopened for three months is asking a terrible lot of his willpower. Not so much he couldn't do it—again, good at not acting on urges—but it'll mean consenting to three months of an itch he isn't allowed to scratch. Maybe a lifetime of it, if Ellis doesn't come back and the unopened letters disappear into the Provost's custody.

"Do you know what I am?" he asks. It isn't rhetorical, not a no in the form of a question. Only curiosity as to how informed Ellis' willingness to take his word for it is.