He could tell another bad joke, ask after stories: Camaraderie, in the rough manner of the Order; of the docks. No point. The man looks a zombie, and they've exchanged pleasantries enough to call the matter settled. Strand lives here now. Barrow isn't dead.

All that's needful.

"I'm to see a man about a horse," He'll do no such thing. Risen, Strand shrugs up his coat for the door. "But I'll leave the sugar."

His head tilts toward the bed, eyes lifting in an exaggerated point: There's a pouch of tobacco, weighing down some broadsheets. And with that, he's gone.