[Small gestures, small comforts, all things beyond his station-- their long lives spent watching others flicker and extinguish, social fancies coming and leaving only to be replaced with something else what feels like a breath later-- he barely remembers the names of his own staff anymore, how little he sees of them before they're gone. So there's value in her hand across his knuckles, even where restraint has him hesitant at soft, informal gestures.

She is a wonder in her own right, and he has little claim to any of it.] Now I understand the words I've heard whispered in Westminster so often: you are cruel, Lady Igraine, dragging an old dog from his bed.