There aren't really any words for how much Lambert wants a drink right now, and it's barely, what, eight in the morning. The crow's scrutiny, unfortunately, won't get him any insights: Lambert's about as non-magical as a human can be.

After a moment, he sighs, closing his hands into fists and resting them on the tabletop, close enough for the crow to reach both with minimal turning of its head. "Are they going to keep looking for you. Tap yes," he raises his right fist, then sets it back down on the table. "Or no." And repeats the motion, this time with his left.