[Henry continues to stroke Maketh's hair tenderly. For a brief moment for what, precisely? sits heavily on the tip of tongue, and he can all but taste the bitterness of those words. But she is vulnerable and he does not truly want to hurt her, so the dissipate as quickly as they formed.

He nods instead, acknowledging her apology.]

No vile deed was done. That is what matters.

[It's not exactly all right — this has become a terrible mess of a birthday — but it is what it is. He will take care of her because he wants to. His deep affection for her is not conditional.

But no small part of him wishes that he was in France, tipsy and laughing with Edward, or in Northumberland, utterly drunk in their private rooms and tussling with Ralph while Alan and Margaret placed bets.

Anywhere than this wretched city.]

Rest, sister. Enough has happened today. Our remaining concerns can wait.