Dexter couldn't talk. He couldn't move, either, actually. It was just as well he was already sitting down, although his grip on Saracen went slack. He just stared at Rover. He couldn't do anything else. It was Rover. It was Rover's grin, Rover's words, his mannerisms--it was Rover, suddenly poofed into sight with a gleam of sunlight in a windowless room.

Dexter needed a moment. He couldn't handle this.

"Forgive me, m'love!" Rover leapt forward and seized Erskine's hand, his smile gone and accent very suddenly a blurry Southern brogue. "But we come 'pon each other so irregular-like. I just couldn't keep away if I had the chance. But I've gotta confession, m'love. You're not my only love."

Corrival had his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. He could have been laughing, except that when he lifted his head his eyes were bright and shiny. "Descry," he said, nodding at someone over Dexter's shoulder.

"Hello, Corrival," Descry said just behind Dexter's head. Dexter flinched, his head jerked, and only then did he see the hand in Saracen's hair. A moment later he felt a weight land on his head, a second comforting hand, and closed his eyes. He was trembling, and hugged Saracen tighter, and couldn't even begin to stop the tears from falling.

But that was okay. He didn't have to hide things from the Dead Men, and it was even more stupid hiding it from Descry.