Lucius balks a bit at the price, but manages to contain his expression as the man drones on about the quality. His voice is all gravel and rasp, handsome in the way a very fine aged brandy is, and he keeps Lucius's focus as he turns his attention as he speaks, even if he's not listened to a word. Idiot that he is, before he can think about his gambit or whom he currently presents as, he starts talking.

"Don't suppose you'd take half trade?" Lucius offers, as though he's hocking stolen trinkets at the dockyard to seedy gentlemen with more brine in them than blood.

Why trade? He has three shillings. A meter is more than enough but...somehow, the idea of someone else owning some of this makes him uneasy. It's stupid, it's just fabric, fabric he won't even use. He manages to release it and pull his purse from his breast pocket--it's a far cry finer than the rest of his clothes, something picked from a fancier pocket than his own and carried because of how easily it slots into his jacket. He has...what eight shillings left after buying his new clothes? Fuck him running.

He can go hungry a while.

"Eight and a silver ring?"