Devero is quiet, giving him space to sort through his thoughts. His eyes are mostly focused on his hands as he continues to slowly, methodically comb that long, pale hair, but he's watching Koumyou sidelong even as he works at it.

Watching the priest's face, that is, not his hands. The sound of ceramic shattering startles him badly; he jerks his hands up and shies back like a colt. He has to arrest himself, reminding himself firmly that this is Koumyou. Not Madame in a fit of pique or one of her cruel friends, Kouymou.

His eyes dart from Koumyou to the broken cup and back. "Sanzo?" he asks. He reaches out, hesitates, draws his own hands back again anxiously. "Are you all right?"