[He's about to say something. He's about to talk about wanting to try surgery to remove the wings. The repeated blind insistence that it would be fatal, despite no one having evidence that a medical procedure would do such a thing. He is about to talk about logic and reason and testing things. Checking results. Changing variables, trying again, checking results. His experiments with Temperance on the wall, for instance.

But he doesn't get it out. Not before she has something else to say.

"fairy tales and kid's stories"

Fairy tales.

"I love newspapers-- fairy tales. And pretty grim ones too."
"Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain."
Hansel and Gretel.
King Arthur.

"I owe you a fall."

And the irritation becomes a quiet rage.

...Then Molly asks a question.]

"Who's he?"? [There's something low and biting in his voice. Something vicious.] You're not that stupid, Molly. You know.

Moriarty.

If you didn't know he was here, then I've given you far too much credit.

Here, and telling his lovely little stories, spinning the lies that sound like the truths they want to hear, and they lap it up out of his hand. Blind.

They don't even think to question him.