Politely--she is Orlesian-bred, after all--the nuglet extends her neck to examine the offered hand. Several moments of focus snuffling ensue, before she puts out one of her own tiny hands to pat at his fingers gravely. You are all right, large oddly shaped nug.

"She'll be looking for a new protege."

Myr's expression falls from worry to heartbreak at the words and the stab of painful empathy they evoke. "Maker's bones, s--" He catches himself on the title; it's never seemed inappropriate before--but to put Simon at such a remove now strikes him as rank cruelty. "Why? Did she say? What--what reason has she got for it?"