"You have discerning taste," John remarked, mostly to himself.

He looked at the bar tender: the bar tender looked at him and raised an eyebrow. John shrugged, lips pressed together for a second, and the drink was made and rested on one of those little napkins soon enough.

John's own scotch arrived next, and he paid for both, trying not to think too much about the time he was part of the working poor. "I'm John, Curnen. I always appreciate a good trick." He couldn't help but glance around at the glass, layered with colours. "Is it any good?" he wondered, after she took the first sip. "Smelled like rum." Because he did know his booze.