"Hmm," Marius murmurs around another overly large mouthful. In Paris, he lacked the technology to cook for himself in his room; he'd lived on what he could afford from the cheapest bakeries near his apartment. In Darrow, he'd adapted, and begun to teach himself how to cook. He manages, but his skills certainly aren't up to par with Rat's.

He pauses at the question; he really hasn't planned that far ahead, yet.

"I was going to go to Coureyrac's birthday party, at Tintern Abbey," he says. And then he blushes, picturing his keys still perched somewhere on his counter. "And then try to find someone to stay with. I sort of...locked myself out of my rooms this morning."

He also rather loathes the thought of spending the night alone like this; it reminds him too much of nights curled in on himself, listening to his grandfather discuss him with his political friends in peals of unashamed laughter.