As far as jerkins go, it's a nice one, made of durable, good quality fabric that someone of Emery's station would be expected to have access to. The colour of it has faded, though, from the vibrant red that it probably was once upon a time, to something more like mauve. The threads that keep it closed are frayed some at their edges.

"It's not like I offer this to every pilgrim off the path."

At that he chuckles once, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. "I'd never have presumed," he replies, lifts up the mug for a drink, then lowers it again and sets it aside. For a moment his hand hovers, as though he's uncertain of where to put it, before allowing his fingers to gently rest against Wilde's on the arm of the chair. The tips of his fingers are callused from hours spent with a quill in hand, stained slightly from ink, but long accustomed to delicate work. And there is a delicacy to how his touch lingers against Wilde's skin, as though prepared to withdraw quickly.

He purses his lips, and then, "Wilde, if I've got it wrong..." He trails off into unguarded silence, waiting.