"...You seem to love the elven people so much you just can't bear to let us go. Of course I'm flattered, don't think I'm not, but--I don't have the time to get caught up in sightseeing. You understand."

There's a crack in the wall there.

Atticus smiles. He doesn't argue or cajole. He dips his head once in a manner that is almost gracious, and accepts what he hears, both spoken and unspoken. "I understand, Enchanter. You're right to be cautious, of course. And this," he adds, spreading his hands to either side as far as he is able, given the shackles that bind his wrists, "is hardly the time for such discussion."

Behind him, he can almost feel the impotent rage emanating from Benedict like a contained brush fire. If the boy could set his robes alight from indignation alone, it's likely that he would have by now. Atticus turns back to his spoilt brat of an apprentice, fixing him with a piercing stare just long enough to convey to him that he'd better cool his heels if he knows what's good for him. Then he gestures at the work table. "Instead of spewing profanity at our jailers, perhaps it would be a better use of your time to set out our research supplies. We have work to do."