Evandrin makes a cracked little sound of amusement and rubs his thumb against the nape of Zerxus' neck.

"Never a hopeless one, though."

Laerryn returns. She stops at the end of the cot, her fingertips resting on its corners. "Nydas didn't answer."

A pause, a long one. "Quay is coming."

The words can best be called wooden, and the feelings behind them can stay as unexamined as possible.

Evandrin smiles at her, blood caught in the wrinkles around a stranger's mouth, and she has a horrible, horrible sense of being crushed by something inside herself, also best left unnamed.

"Zerxus," she murmurs. Her eyes are on Evandrin's borrowed face. "Can I- Can we-"

Evandrin takes pity on her and looks at his husband. "Give me a moment with her, love?"