Constantine was ... honest, in an odd sort of way. Most men were in denial about their vices, about their selves; though Anton didn't believe Constantine was telling him the full truth, he didn't hide his vices. There was power in admitting one's own flaws. It was one of the reasons Anton had lived so long, for a gist-user.

He still couldn't quite be sure that the 'tea' was not in fact tea. There hadn't been much of a reaction; Constantine's control was fine. But Constantine's oblique admission of drinking was suggestive enough for Anton to make the assumption, going forward.

Anton probably shouldn't like the man, because he was probably a liar and a thief, but he did. Larrikin had been a liar and a thief too, after all. Less evasive, just as shameless.

If Constantine had spells he was willing to use, so much the better. Anton inclined his head. "Very well. Your room only. And no, there is no penalty for the use of magic; though magic used against others, even passive magic without their consent, does qualify as violence."

Like China's enchantment. The thought of her made the gist stir lazily as a wash of angry heat in Anton's chest, as it always did these days.