[Hector’s easy teasing falters, and his brow furrows.

‘I would be that for you,’ he does not say. Isaac is like a bull, or he was at the castle, from what Hector saw, taking his pick from the herd and rarely returning to a lover once used and discarded.

Hector isn’t like that. He’s the bird who mates for life. The life of one, if not the life of both.

Hector can’t make an offering of himself to Isaac only to be cast aside the next morning.

He pushes himself up and cards a hand through his tangled hair.]

There will be beds soon, when we get back on the road again. The port towns along the coast see travelers from all over; they won’t be so easily spooked by the sight of us as the peasants here.

[A day or two sleeping in a tavern with actual beds will do both of them good, no matter who Isaac chooses to tumble while he’s there.]