Henry blinked a few times as the short woman's facial expression dimmed slightly at his words, and he frowned. He hadn't said anything - at her admonishment to mindhis manners he ran his last few sentences back through in his head and his frown became more pronounced, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

The musician's tanned skin paled as she told him her mother had spared her that life - and he finally realized why she had gotten.. dimmer. "Ah, wait, miss - my apolo-" But she was already moving past it, cutting off his chance to apologize for his fumble. She wasn't wrong with her next words, he would like to know her name - but if Mother Matilda found out he had implied, even accidentally, that someone was a lady of the night...even in his early twenties, he knew the shrewd old woman would happily tan his hide.

Henry shook his head sharply when the dark-skinned woman called over her shoulder to him, and he exhaled softly. Well, there was no help for it at this point, even if he did feel like a bit of a heel for implying she was in that profession. He'd have to make amends for it. He twisted his staff back into the holster on his bag and started walking after Yvonne, slinging his fiddle case around as he soon overtook her. He gave the black-haired woman a sheepish smile and shortened his strides so she wouldn't have to hurry to keep up, as nimble fingers unattached the case.

Soon enough, the now empty case fell back, hanging on its straps as Henry brought his fiddle up, and set the bowstick to the cords. He started playing as he led the way down the street, towards the large, slightly ramshackle structure in the distance that served as the local orphanage. The music was soft and light as he walked, and it was more to give him something to focus on with his hands than anything else. His fingers danced back and forth as he played, and collected his thoughts.

"I apologize for some poor word choice there, and I apologize in advance - the others at the orphanage are a mixed bunch, and some of them are.. Abrasive." Bright blue eyes slid sideways, down to the woman walking beside him as he strode down the path through the sprawling yard of the orphanage, through rusty gates that had seen better days. The orphanage hadn't been a mansion, no, but it had definitely been close in its heyday, a large, expansive building. Mother Matilda was the last of the home's original family line, and her children had died in the Civil War.

Heads began to pop up in windows, and shrieks of joy could be heard, muffled by walls and distance. Henry picked up his paceslightly, tucking his fiddle and stick under his arm as he reached the door and held it open for the woman, tilting his head slightly. "After you." He smiled gently.