He let her go, reached his right hand instinctively to massage his left shoulder. It did nothing but make the ache grind harder, and so he left off. Smiled at her.

"I know why you're thanking me," he said, "so I can't not accept it, but you..." You do me a great service, he could have finished, but that was courtly nicety, the sort of thing he might graciously offer to those doing him political favours. Baron-language, cumberous on the tongue. Any child of mine will be safe with you; will come into this dying, warstruck world not a fool's debt, or a terrible error, but a child you'll want and cherish; how do I say what that means to me? He shook his head. "Thank you."