Susan studies him for a protracted moment. When she first arrived, she hadn't the wherewithal to moderate the intensity of her most piercing of looks. She doesn't bother now, either - not with Lancelot, who already knows the extent of the keenness of her attention and sharpness of her assessments. Then she nods. "I ought to put the turnovers into the oven," she tells him, and withdraws from his hold with a squeeze of his hand.

By the time she's closed the door behind them, she's sorted out what she thinks she's seen, and what she wants to say. She closes the distance between them again. "Have you asked him about your place?"