It lets out a mew, annoyed at no longer being petted, and rubs pointedly against Mordred's calf.
He looks almost blank, standing there -- his arms loose at his sides, his hair, so pale as to be more like ash than gold, forming a halo around his face. It's possible to see his father in him, in the strong line of his jaw and the bright blue of his eyes, but he has none of Lancelot's muscular build, nor his handsome solidity; he looks like a changeling, a moorchild. After another silence he says, "I'll make the tea."