Courfeyrac has an errand. It is not one he's particularly happy with, but there is, it transpires, surprisingly little that he will not do for love.

So he's gotten dressed properly for the first time in several weeks, and gone to knock on Queen Morgause's door.

Courfeyrac lets himself quietly out of Sagramore's room. He's looking a little unwontedly somber, and a little frayed round the edges.

Courfeyrac happens to be on his way upstairs -- alone, notably -- his hands tucked in his pockets, with an abstracted air.

There's a fire in the fireplace, and Courfeyrac is sprawled on the floor in front of it like the overgrown kitten he is, head pillowed in his arms, entirely in everyone's way.

Courfeyrac, for want of more useful occupation, is skipping stones on the lake. He's in his shirtsleeves, the breeze ruffling his auburn hair, and the whole tableau is quite boyishly fetching, but for God's sake don't tell him that.