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"I do not like this at all," says Talbot, from where he sits at the large rough-hewn table in the kitchen. He has gone from staring at his pot roast, moving the bits of potato and onion about with his fork, to looking at Janet. Behind him, somehow comfortably arranged between the back of Talbot's highback chair and the wall, stands Cesambre: perfectly still, her velvet muzzle just at the level of Talbot's right ear, so that with every one of her breaths he can feel a warm puff of air against his skin. "It is not the natural-- order of things."

"I know," she says, gently, with the air of someone who has heard an argument a thousand times. She has measured out her responses, and knows they will go over this a thousand times more before he is satisfied. Her voice is low and quiet, barely audible over the crackle and pop of the fire that burns in the hearth, "but there is nothing you could have done. It was out of your hands."

He looks somewhat mollified at this, and chooses his next action wisely: spearing a hunk of beef and a carrot on his fork and chewing them with an air of intense exhaustion and longsuffering. Talbot had been on the fringes when the air had cleared and Gwyn had risen after ripping the soldier's throat out. He had fought valiantly to try and clear himself of the glamour keeping him rooted in place -- but had not been able to.

If there were any alcohol to have been found in his vicinity he might have drunk it -- but since being found nearly dead in the Wardwood, Cesambre and Elias (Elias, of all people) have conspired to keep it well away from him. Instead, he sits his fork down with a clink and sits back in his chair with a frown: it looks quite on his strong features and good mouth, but there is a fury in his eyes.

Cesambre moves gently out of the way as he pushes back from the table, rising: he is dressed in coat and neck cloth and Hessians; now, unlike before, his saber rattles at his hip. She watches him as he turns to leave the close, warm safety of the kitchen and stride out into the yard, dressed all in silvers and blues with the arrival of nightfall. She looks to Janet, considering the other woman's reaction before she makes up her mind what to do.

"He was not always like that," she says, not in the least perturbed by the language Janet employs. Like any good lady of breeding, Cesambre merely ignores it. "I think my arrival in his life started it." She snorts, an unbecoming sound from someone so beautiful, so self-composed. Even the rose behind her ear is still in perfect bloom. "Though, I think, he may mollify her; they spend hours together, talking." She lifts her green eyes to Janet, considering her without judgement, "I wouldn't lay all of your eggs in one basket just yet."

Cesambre, who has moved from behind Talbot's empty chair to approach Janet -- they are having a conversation, and she finds the woman strangely intriguing and magnetic -- simply tilts her head, and then her eyes crinkle. It is the Guardian equivalent of a smile, or at least as close to an open smile as Cesambre is ever willingly going to get. "Thank you."

**

"Perhaps," Talbot rumbles, considering the stillness of the darkened lot, the pockmarked ground where many hooves have roughened up the dirt. "I've been doing some thinking, of course, as we all have." He reaches into the pocket of his coat, in the warm layer between outer frock coat and waistcoat -- the many layers of any well-bred gentleman -- and then hands her a small vellum envelope. "I want to contribute."

Inside the envelope is a cheque in no small amount: Talbot is a Talbot, after all, and they are landed gentry. Though he normally eschews the nobleman's lifestyle, he has holdings, and money: now some of it is Maeve's. "Which will essentially be spit in my family's eye, but to hell with it, I suppose." One side of his full mouth curls up.

The manner in which Talbot tosses his head hints at something self-satisfied, a rare show of ... well, completely unrestrained emotion from the normally tightly-laced captain. "They've many reasons to think I've slighted them -- this is at least a worthy one. I'd toast, but."

His dark eyes flick to Finnavair as she comes panting up, and his immediate questing thought to Cesambre is answered as his own guardian makes her way into the moonlight. Against Finnavair's moon-silvered black hide, the moonlight makes the other guardian look like a ghost.

"Hello, Maeve," she says, as gently as she can manage, given that telltale thinning of lips. "I think you and I are in accordance."

"Ah," Cesambre says, actually managing to look embarassed -- visible in the swift and temporary laying back of her ears, "I meant we're in accordance as to his family. But do let us partake in some champagne," she adds, with a caress of her soft chin against Talbot's ear. It is a subtle message, subtle pressure: one glass. They both know what happened in the Wardwood.

"I should like that," Talbot speaks for himself. "I'd venture to say that a check like that merits a celebration no matter where it is."

Cesambre's eyes glitter merrily but she says nothing, before she nods to Maeve and takes her leave, walking deeper into the courtyard and leaving her chosen behind. There is a shifting of shadows farther back, and a buck raises its head from within the shadows: dark, with a cream rack. Perhaps Siscalus.

Talbot's smile is genuine this time as he demurs: "I appreciate the offer, but I think I must respectfully decline."

Talbot is handy with a corkscrew, though there is a subtle pressure in his thoughts: Cesambre, perhaps an unspoken warning. He looks mildly irritated as he begins to twist the corkscrew deep into the cork (I will be fine, that look says, I am sharing this with two other people), and then with a practiced hand pulls the cork out with a satisfying pop. Foam spills to the ground and flecks land on his Hessians, spit-polished.

"No sir necessary," he says; "as much as this may disturb some of you. For the nonce, I am an agent of the Wardens. If you've an empty room, I'll stay. I have some things to discuss."

Talbot sips at his champagne, deems it worthy of consumption (unlike the horse piss he started drinking halfway through the binge), and then takes a bigger swallow. There is a subtle pressure in his thoughts, like a hand resting warmly on the back of his skull: Cesambre, who broadcasts her worry into his head without relent or remorse.

"I wasn't aware she had a stag," he murmurs quietly, when he has had enough. "She might need him, though I run the risk of sounding dire. Have you had many new Chosen come to the Swan?" He had not managed to speak to the queen, only her pet fairy -- but he had seen the determination on the Queen's face. He knows this feeling intimately. "I thought, if nothing else, that I might bring my sister here, to meet you," he adds. "She is seventeen and impressionable, but she is Chosen."