It's a lot of information, and Credence blinks owlishly for a few moments, soaking it in. He doesn't mind it in the least--information is good, new, and Credence is hungry for things like this. he's been taught not to question, not to ask--to just do what he's told, nothing more, nothing less. Now, he's talking to people, and not only that but it's people who aren't interested in the New Salem Philanthropic Society.

"If you wouldn't mind," Credence says shyly, and his hand moves over the pocket, ghosting where the knife is through the black fabric. He's not sure if he can even hold a knife, let alone stab with it. He imagines it's pretty easy.

Anything to use himself as the last measure. After all, for all he knows he's the one causing all of this. He just has to control it. He has to learn to harness whatever it is inside him. His gift, his curse, whatever it is.

"Walking helps me think," he says, voice as soft as ever. "And everything looks prettier at night, don't you think?"