“Oh, don’t be,” Bastien says, emerging from his quiet, contemplative distance not quite immediately, but rapidly. Like tossing on a coat of good humor and a hat of indifference upon realizing he’s underdressed.

He lifts the letter out in front of him, held up vertically against his palm, and flattens his fingers to try to balance it on end. It would be easier without the airflow from walking, but he manages it for a few seconds.

“It’s the least heavy thing I have been asked to hold all week.”