Mr Funeral Director had jumped up in John's estimation whether he knew it or not, whether he cared or not. So this was the man responsible. Some of the casual arrogance of John's posture bled out but not much. Submission was a skill he had never learned well.

"Makes one wonder what called for these measure in the first place although I'm getting an idea," he murmured, shifting the papers on his lap to a semblance of order. A passing comment, little more. Certainly not one he expected an answer to. The last of it? That was a different story.

"Oh come on. You'd kick me out just for lighting up? Ain't it bad enough that you tell us we can't drink? No smoking either? I can keep it to my room but not at all? Got to be some trade we can make."

'Trade' was often a dangerous word in John's world, but he had little desire to leave the Midnight Hotel. Papa Midnite himself wouldn't be able to storm these gates, and John didn't have the time or resources that Jasper did to construct another Mill.

"I'll open a window. Clean the things myself. No one will catch a whiff."

No one non-magical, of course. The smoke in his clothing threw off those seeking his scent, kept him hidden. It was a mask John would prefer not to let go.