"Oh, Lord, it's not as if I have any idea what they've done," is a promptly dismissive take on where Palamedes' poor bones have gone. (And other — squishier — bits, for that matter, assuming those were also collected in a nice bucket-in-a-coffin for the Sixth House to mourn.) "I just heard that our darling, wicked little Seventh went and got herself killed off in exchange for a couple of babies — not what any of us were expecting — well." He holds up a hand, pronates it, then wobbles it back and forth in a so-so gesture. "Not what I was expecting, anyway, especially not so quickly. Couldn't help but wonder if that wasn't what tipped off the other Number Seven to hurry up its schedule, but — well, no need for you to worry about that old lag, now, is there?"

Altogether too cheerful, for someone dropping tiny little context-free hints about just How Weird Shit Gets on the other side of the universe, huh.

Palamedes does get a more speculative look landed on him, though, as the Saint of Patience reaches out to bob his teabag in its cup — glancing down at it only very briefly indeed, apparently deciding it is Not Done — then settles back in his seat once more.

"Are you always a piteously terrible gossip mill? Or do you only mean that in this particular case?"