[He understands it, he says, missing the familiar even when it's hard and cruel and cutting, and as a result Giovanni smiles his lopsided smile. A small thing, maybe, that assertion of understanding, but in their current situation (and perhaps even beyond that, perhaps always, as far back as he can remember) small things are worth holding onto.

But he says nothing of it, not overtly, turns his focus instead onto Prior's answer to the question he'd asked. Finds himself nodding, just once. Perhaps their words were wildly divergent things, he's yet to hear much about the one Prior hails from, but this - at least - provides a point of commonality.]

There was no magic in my world, either. At least, none that I'd ever seen or heard of outside of fictional tales and the slight of hand kind one finds amongst street performers. We had only science with which to create our wonders.

[Said a little dryly, a little slyly. Wonders-- it isn't the right word. Isn't how he'd refer to himself.]