Broaching the subject without having to face silence (cold or stunned) seems to embolden him, for better or worse. He’s still haggard, dingy with drink, but some of the shocky, scruffed racoon fugue has eased off.

Speaking to him feels less like speaking to an animal playing dead.

“The former.”

It’s important to distinguish that straight away. The rest is on shakier ground, loose earth and leaves scattered across a tiger pit he knows is here somewhere. He should probably just let it lie.

Richard looks at her and measures. Bleary, serious, his chin tucked to match hers.

“I don't believe you would be willfully. Untoward.”

He hiccups.