"I might ask for stories later." He almost says 'over a drink', but then he's not sure if she drinks alcohol, and it's in short supply anyway. Stories should be enough excuse for a civil conversation, anyway.

With a faint nod in return, he makes a light cut across his forearm, about two inches long and just deep enough that a doctor might recommend stitches to close it, without really threatening the muscle. It bleeds like any wound, but only for a few seconds. He's trying to rein in his Grace to keep the process slow enough to observe, but it's fast nonetheless. Still, she may be able to see the signs of wound healing slip by in rapid succession: clotting, inflammation, scabbing, and finally restoration to the pre-cut state. What she may or may not sense is the flux of power: energy drawn from his angelic Grace forcing the flesh-and-bone vessel to speed up its physical processes.