[ Eliot turns his entire head towards her, abandoning the pretense of admiring the ring fighters, so Margo can see his entire face journey as he processes that string of statements.

Does he need to tell her that he hates his shorn hair? It's such a tangible reminder that someone's been fucking with them. At least in Fillory, they could scrape together a momentary reprieve from the shitstorm of fairies. (Though it's better for Eliot if he doesn't dwell on the fairies, or what that invasion had cost him and Margo each.) Here, they're magic-less, kingdom-less, and neither of them can style themselves out of that reality. It's insult to injury is what it is. The powers that be should just be glad Margo's contenting herself with gambling and alcohol at the moment instead of eliciting bloody revenge. ]

You know how I feel about proving myself.

[ That he's done enough proving. Both of them have. ]

But if you're suggesting we sucker ourselves someone rich, handsome and little gullible by selling the whole Fillory schtick? I'm in.

[ As far as Eliot's concerned, it would take about the same amount of work as getting Instagram-famous. If he and Margo had put their minds to that back at Brakebills, who knows? They might be somewhere else right now. ]