Close--Corrival had just reached the doorway himself, and since he was leaning so heavily on the frame it wasn't all that difficult to angle himself back toward the living-room. "If you never make me clothes again for my throwing up on your shoes because I got drunk over your yanking me back into extracurricular affairs, I'm telling Dexter and Erskine you need help wooing a girl."

The old sorcerer lurched into the kitchen proper, catching himself on the counter and breathing deeply so he wouldn't need the sink in the immediate future. It took a few minutes for his stomach to settle, but once it had Corrival moved, slowly and carefully, to the fridge to get what he needed for his hangover cure.

All the while, he let the pain buzz in his ears, diffusing the thoughts and the weight of the knowledge Ghastly had given him. The tailor had been crying in the night, Corrival knew. Corrival had pretended not to hear. It wasn't as if his cheeks had been entirely dry. He'd had friends killed by Vile too.

Eyes half closed, slow and fumbling, Corrival worked his way around the kitchen, half unsure if he wanted to be cured of his hangover or not.