Sweet tea is something the south is known for. He doubts she would care much for it in a place where they have much more pressing priorities. Still, perhaps there would be an opportunity for sharing one of these days. She can show him some of hers and he would show her some of his.

"What is one to call you?" he asks, not to taunt or goad her, tease her for the unfortunate association. He genuinely does not understand the distinction between mage, witch, warlock, sorcerer, shaman, spellcaster or any such similar titles.

"Sharing anything with you is nothing to be sorry for," he assures her with a smile. He does not need to have lived his life in courts to flirt. He has done so just fine in saloons and bordellos. But he does not intend to ask any favour of her or win any points for some hidden agenda. If he can get a little bit past her prickly exterior he would consider it a battle hard fought and won already.

"Speaking of which. Give me a moment." He leans back and shoots her a wink without thinking she might find that gesture completely foreign before turning to head briskly up the stairs. He returns in no time at all, her dress draped over his forearm trailing behind him.

"I am sorry I could not find a perfect match of fabric and shade. But I tried my best to mend your dress." It has also been washed and dried, so it smells like clean laundry and there is no blood to be found around the neat stitchwork.