Yet again, all Palamedes can think is, ah, so many words. He mumbles a half-hearted interjection, "I was giving context," about his various, hm, parts. The rest washes over him like he's not really there, as soon as the wicked little Seventh is mentioned. It's a strange feeling, to listen to the Saint of Patience talk about her like a— like a person, and not a monster who killed a bunch of children and people he cared about. Maybe that's his own problem, thinking of her as a thing and not a woman to make the wound scab over more easily.

He doesn't mention any of that. He feels like admitting anything about his involvement in all that might be gauche, at least right this second. It occurs to him that he still doesn't know her name, but Patience says something arcane about another Number Seven, and the thread of curiosity attached to that chases away anything else Palamedes might have been thinking of asking.

Hmm.

Something to think about.

He raises an eyebrow to the Saint's scrutinizing look, and then he shrugs.

"It depends on who's asking, and about what," he offers. "I literally couldn't tell you anything about the time between Canaan House and... I don't know when, actually. Harrow washed up on this shore before I did, but the timing doesn't line up with the last time I saw her."

A beat. "So, in this particular case, I am useless as a gossip mill. What did you want to gossip about?"