The voice sends the book flying - aie, peccato, peccato! - and sprays an arc of red wine all over the table. His heart is between his teeth. Shut your mouth, shut your mouth so it doesn't jump out, his senses scream, and the chair is pushed back with a screech. His hands go for the sword that isn't there, and he feels Miquel at his back, rallied into something like attention (but not nearly as alarmed as he should be porca miseria oh madonna why is that what's wrong with the fool?) while the voice throbs in his head. You didn't want me, he wants to scream, why now? why now after all this time, his mind wants to melt, why not pick up that corpse in Navarra when I was meant to go, and already he's praying Hail Marys in Catalan, Latin, and gutter Roman before his legs fold and his arse lands on the edge of his chair.

"Buy you a drink," he echoes, not comprehending.