His brow furrows slightly, hearing something else in Alecto's tone, teasing at the edges of his brain, an artist's eye for detail conflicting with his limited social consciousness, but he nods in agreement. What else could he do?

"Wear - " He takes a breath, a little surprised at his daring. "Wear something you're comfortable in, if you could. I... I won't be able to start painting right away. There's no reason to dress up, just yet."

He gathers up the pages, tucks them back into the worn folio and tucks it against his chest. "I'll take my leave then, Alecto," he says his voice a little breathy, ducking his head in an awkward but sincere bow, and backs out of the dining room. His sleep is fitful but deep, his dreams a cacophony of color, dawn-tinted waves breaking on rocky shores, and he wakes early to a tray of breakfast outside his door - an unimaginable luxury - even before he'd intended to leave for the walk that he hoped would become part of his daily routine. So he is content and as composed as he ever was when he retraces his steps back to the drawing room again, clutching a blank sketchbook and a few other supplies to his chest, his fingers already itching to get started.