"How did she take that pitch?"

He's gone wry, gentle but not sympathetic. John has closed himself off: he settles forward again, drops his hands to lace his fingers, rubbing his thumb along the edge of a palm as though to soothe himself. There are still bits of flower sticking to his shirtfront, but he's moved on.

"I can only guess at her story, and it's not the kind to tell at this table." The implication that he'd tell it at all nearly gets him shocked, but they seem to let this pass on technicality. "This one's out of my hands. Ten thousand years is hell on anyone, and to dig out those stories isn't a kindness... it's better to let it lie."

They don't shock him, because he believes it. More than not.