[One might argue how well he's truly handling his transition to explorer of alternate worlds beneath both his masks, the literal and the public one below that. He might argue the refreshingly banal urge to roll his eyes is a break from strangeness, a reminder that magic, no matter how much it puts the shine of sequins to shame with its dark glint, doesn't always alchemically who it belongs to.

People are still people at their base element. Sometimes exasperating.]

I'm sure you didn't mean the face powder.

[She has enough going on in that area.]

The other I would call the tonic for what troubles you. [He glances at the center of her chest, looking for the glaem again, but it's gone, chased from his otherworldly sight by the dazzling electric lights and back behind her ribs. Then his gaze cuts to his left--at a stool and the black jacket tossed over it, left behind by the wearer now on the dance floor, given over to one of the intriguingly disordered group dances.] Or perhaps this would be more to your liking.

[Taking the jacket, he offers it, holding it open to put on. Kindness, as a general rule, is not always a jacket that fits him well. But she's young yet, and he doubts she intended to arrive looking as she is any more than he had.]