He chuckles, a slippery little sound. He's not sure what to make of this guy. One moment he seems to be on high alert, and the next he's totally oblivious.

"You said you couldn't find a pattern to the type of people here, didn't you? I'm just curious, then, what type of person you would say you are. Why do you think they chose you?"

And what type of person does he think August is? August himself is less sure of the answer to that question lately, like everything he tricked himself into believing was built on solid granite actually turned out to be balanced on pillars of sand instead. If they — he mentally stumbled around the word faeries — brought him here for his talents, he wonders which talent of his snared their attention. What, his gift for fucking everything up?