He doesn't look at her when he raises his eyebrows and tips his head downwards in an as you wish gesture. He stares, instead, at the motionless gruesome head, the body beyond it. But there's no more commentary before he starts to sing.

His voice isn't quite what it once was, no. A decade and a half of hard living has roughened his once-clear baritone. Not a lot, though; the sound is still even and pleasing to the ear, his pitches precise, his breathing deep and regular. He's had training, even if he doesn't have quite the natural talent he once did, and so his technical skill is considerable.

The song he sings is in Barrayaran French - a language that does not fully sound like the French of Earth, but which has the same general shape of it. He looks maybe just a bit wistful as he sings, his eyelids half-lowered over his dark eyes. He leaves off after about a minute, falling silent.