[He lets her hope seep into him. He knows the flavor of her nudges, and doesn't feel so much manipulated as comforted... as though she placed a warm hand over an aching muscle. He lets himself curl closer again.]

I know. But--Ilsa, if I weren't worried she'd drone me and leave you alone, I'd simply go up to the door and knock, and tell her how many ways I like Mayfield. And how much I wish I could help her work out how to stop making the people here angry, when she wants them to be happy with her.