He hasn’t finished the thought, and it seems increasingly likely to stay unfinished, resolve pushed and pulled in the tidal sweep of Wysteria’s determination like a dead eel, pale and soft and losing pieces of itself on the sand. Richard is quiet for a while longer while he watches it slip away, rotten through his fingers.

If it’s only important to him, it isn’t important.

“An hour.” His voice pinches raw in his throat, and he clears it to frown back down to the paper with scholarly intent. Serious, in spite of the odd slurred word wobbling his arcane authority. “It’s a ritual. I already have the materials.”

Finer details like armed companions pass him by as a logical progression, in the moment. Whatever she thinks is best.

“I won’t be able to assist while I’m concentrating.”