"I haven't ended up in irons yet, so I'm good," he replied. "Her Majesty's pleased, I am pleased. Her Majesty is mostly pleased to be anywhere, really." He side-eyed Marcello's last remark, then, in a lightning-fast leap of diplomacy, said, "The queen will want to be alone for a while yet, and I would very much like a drink; I'm parched."

"Good," Marcello replied. He grinned, a little nervously, and gestured for the other man to follow. "I know where they keep the good stuff in the kitchens," he explained. "I was hoping you'd join me. I, err...I have to plead a bit of an ulterior motive, here, if you haven't guessed by now."

"Good beer is its own motive," Faolin replied nicely, following. "I will confess, I'm a little uncomfortable with anything outside the countess's knowledge."

Marcello's uncanny knack for getting along with the castle paid off, and the next door he opened led into the kitchens. "The countess?" He asked, sounding a bit confused. "She doesn't keep me on that short a leash, I assure you. You don't mind, then?" he asked, a little hesitant, as he wove his way between the cooks and scullions and other various people hard at work, at one point swiping a pasty from a tray with astoundingly good timing. "I was a little worried you would take offense, if I tried to talk to you."

Faolin looked only mildly annoyed that when Marcello said 'the kitchen' he literally meant the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose, then put his game face back on, smooth and imperturbable. "Of course not," he said, raising his voice over the clatter. "I don't mind talking. I meant anything more serious."

"More serious as in what?" Marcello asked, as he half-walked, half-danced his way to a cache of wine, stopping only momentarily to kiss one of the older cooks on the cheek. "I'm not going to put you in the cheeseroom for taking an interest in my sister."

And Faolin's shoulders went loose again. "Ah, so that's what this is about." He hesitated, then asked, in the tone of a man for whom English is a second, less eloquent language, "Cheeseroom?"

Marcello chuckled. "Niabheara doesn't have a dungeon, so if we have to lock someone up, they go in the cheeseroom. Well, yes. Goneril seems to think I'm a rotten brother, and Niabheara seems to think Goneril's a rotten sister, so I thought the least I could do is get to know you a bit better," he explained, as he found two cups. "We'd best get out of the cooks' way, though," he said. "They hate when I'm underfoot."

"Do you come here often?" he asked, confused, as he tried to follow Marcello while simultaneously swerving out of the way of a very small boy bearing a very large tray. "Goneril has--excuse me, mistress--hasn't actually said too much about you. More that she's pointedly avoided the subject."

"I like to cook," Marcello explained. "It drives them a bit mad, so I try to stay out of their way when they're busy." Marcello reached the nearest door and held it open. "Oh, good," he said. "But I wasn't going to ask, actually. It would be a bit wretched of me to try to use you to spy on my sister. To be fair, I don't really know her very well anymore. I left home when she was fourteen."