"I'd rather you did a better job of convincing me," is a little wry, a little joking. He doesn't know that William is faintly considering lying to him, a faint guilelessness to crooked, reddish smile that only just recalls the sassy teapot poses that can go with.

He remains lounging against parapet instead. "'No, the demon won't harm anyone, Charles', sort of like that."

It's silent, now. Charles considers the surroundings and his own lucidity, and nothing much changes. The sky seems a little greyer, and if he glanced over his shoulder, he suspects the fountain would be dry and flooded with weeds. The lawns unkempt. The sunlight whiter, somehow. The smell of New York rain from hours ago permeates the air. A decade of neglect settles subtle.