That question again. The Gargoyle had asked it of him, too, and it provokes the same sort of prickly uncertainty as before, though he's reluctant to take it out on this young woman as he did his fellow garden-dweller.

He raises his hands to chest-level with his palms facing skyward, and briefly averts his gaze to watch as the rain gathers in the creases of his skin. The hint of a smile has gone, replaced with trepidation and thought. "...I don't know," he eventually admits in a bit of a distant voice, though something ugly within him twinges at the confession of his lack of knowledge.