Fuck. He runs his hand through his hair; it gets caught on a matte of something or other -- a tangle, a snarl, blood -- he doesn't know but it has to come out. It has to.

"I'd like a bath or shower, love. Would you join me?"

He knows she's right about everything. Someone else has the job; what he found is gone; the goblins wouldn't give a billywig's sting if anything happened to him. They don't even know.

"Please?"