Face to the floor, Devero strains his ears and the very edges of his peripheral vision to track Heber's approach. He flinches a little when that hand traces his broad shoulders, a breath huffing out of him.

But he does not break position. He's too well-trained for that.

Hey, speaking of! The invocation of his Madame makes him lick his lips, her specter simultaneously unwelcome and necessary. He has to remember his place, that same place that Samir had lifted him so patiently out of....

He swallows hard. "No, my Lord," he says. "I was her-- I thought I was--" Breathe. Don't babble. "I thought I had her favor, before she sent me here."