“Zechariah Mire, écuyer,” he answered offhandedly.

He swished his gin about in his mouth for a moment, chewing on both his words and how to say it in French.

“Vous savez Oscar Wilde?” he settled on.

Now this was getting into his French comfort zone. How many homoerotic books had he poured over in French? His pronunciation was subpar, but he knew more than his share of phrases for homosexualité – France’s stances toward sodomy were a major part of paying attention to the damned language in the first place.

“Il est en prison, pour homosexualité.”