"The pile." You sound like a magpie. Or something like...a squirrel, hoarding up for winter.

[She takes mental notes of his quick examples of his extended families' ends, should she ever need a new handbag.]

So you're basically built to run yourselves into extinction, charming. Explains why I've yet to run into another dragon in a financial capital. You're the first, though it does beg the question how you've managed to survive natural selection this long...

[Whatever banter he was getting from her before shutters at the mention of family; she takes another sip of wine, draining the glass.]

No, no family. Sirens are made, not born. Another biology lesson for you.