Don Juan thought the answer to that question was obvious, at least superficially: "Smoking." Or at least he had been, before he'd doused his cigarette in the hopes of going undiscovered a few more minutes. She probably meant something like why are you in your pajamas on the rooftop or why haven't you come down for breakfast yet or are you having a bout of melancholy but if she had desired specificity in his response, she ought to have included some in her question. He rubbed his fingertips against the leg of his pajama pants to get the ash off, then reached for the lighter again. Since he had been unsuccessful in hiding, he ought to at least have the excuse of needing to finish this cigarette before anyone could foist him inside. He would have to go inside, he recognized, now that he had been discovered. The only other option was to hurl himself off the rooftop, and he cared too much about Lycoris to leave her burdened with traumatic memories.

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