The blood wasn’t his. Doctors were expensive. He humored her anyway.

“Perhaps that would be best,” he answered, eyes on his wrapped hand.

He was still holding the grisly, broken wine glass, and looked about for a place to put it. That couple was out, at least. He wasn’t worried about them – she had only seen them once, after all.

Little did he know.

He had second thoughts about getting a doctor involved, and so he wiped his hand as dry as the formerly stark-white handkerchief could get it.

“Ah, that was his,” he said simply.

No cut, and he suspected the swelling would go down with time. Once upon a time he might have smoked some opium for it, but he rather needed his senses about him.