Focused on his own eager anticipation of the carriage ride, Arcturus remained blithely unaware of his companion's acute discomfort at first. He was thinking of the journey ahead, the sights they would see, and speaking of them easily. There was something in the way he pulled the curtain across to let in the light, however, which drew the young wizard's attention. It was difficult for him to read Mr Volkov's expression. It wasn't one he had seen before – but what was obvious was that something was wrong. Perhaps terribly.
Arcturus watched him, concerned and a little bewildered, and waited.
Mr Volkov's next words didn't cast any light upon the mystery. What could this mysterious illness be, and what in Merlin's name did chocolate have to do with it? He resisted the urge to blurt out half a dozen questions. It wasn't polite. It wasn't appropriate. He had been raised better. 'I promise,' he said instead, slowly. 'I give you my word of honour that I shall keep what you tell me of your illness entirely to myself.' It might not have been a magically binding promise, but Arcturus' solemn look suggested that he took it just as seriously as if it had been. His word meant something.