What's with him? Too, too much, a fist around his brain, so much quicker than a laser drill to the putamen. Pulling at the ends of strings he can only discover when they tug him back into line. Half the time he forgets, he thinks this is what he ought to be doing.

"In which way?" he asks, turning around after he says it, facing Rita again. It's a fair question, he's met one servant who sent him with the onions, and vaguely noticed the staff at the ball.