[The marquis catches the bottled with the practiced ease of someone who is practiced at everything . When he opens it, it's with a touch of caution which he does his best to conceal. The drink goes down cold, unlike the last taste of alcohol he had, which was red wine and warmer. The carbonation makes his lips tingle. It tastes like malt and earth and breath. Not terrible.]

[He laughs, a deep and throaty and pleasant sound, rich and dark as peat. No tricks.]

You can't possibly believe that.

[Not that he won't be quote-unquote "a badass". He always is; no point in acting as though he's anything but highly competent. But tricks, he's always got those. Redeemed or not. There will always be something more. He will always be planning a hundred steps ahead of the enemy.]

[This time, maybe he won't have to give his life and find a way to steal it back. But he will do what needs to be done for his home.]

Do you really think London Below would welcome me back as a man of complete honesty? Please don't disappoint me and say yes.