Irritated — vastly irritated — Augustine reaches for the rose, first, or — maybe for the shoulder that the rose is on, with so many nice helpful bones involved in its composition, yes? Use one of those, that'll show her (them) — no.

His fingers close on cold marble, and cold marble is all he feels, however deeply he looks.

His face is twisted in a scowl, therefore, when his hand drops down to pluck a rose away so carelessly, as if the intent to cause a startled, painful wound was never there in the first place. (It's still there, now.) He spares a pisiform, instead, the cup erupting fully-formed from the base of his hand, caught even as it breaks free of his mending flesh, beheaded rose mashed bitterly into a haphazardly-ugly socket.

(Harrowhark would have made a work of art from the request, unable to imagine otherwise, no doubt; she also would have had dozens of bones on her person, rather than having to use one of her person.)

"Are you happy, now?" he demands, thrusting the bone-cupped rose up towards their featureless face, heedless of the glittering swirl of dust still trickling from his wrist; heedless, too, of the way there is something darker even than his blood, itself, in the mix.