She laughs a weird sort of laugh, looking down at her glass. "I stopped understanding what you said at Da Vinci," she says, and it's said with a sort of shrug, because she's not like him. She doesn't know art, and who Verrocchio is, and she wonders if it's because he lived it, or because she's stupid or because or something else. She doesn't just stop, though, she steps out on a limb, and she swallows hard. "Who was-" and she butchers the pronunciation, Vero-chio but she wants to know, and she's shifting so she can pull up her knees in front of her, her toes tucked under his leg because they're cold and it's weirdly intimate but she doesn't really think about it.