Thot’s legs hang useless as she’s lifted, and languish loose in their joints where he tries to place her, so that Ellis must lay her down on her side like a broken doll. Silas looks on, briefly distant in his disapproval, wine in hand. He does not prompt her to behave.

“Of course,” he says. The door is open.

Not technically, technically it’s closed. They’ve been over this already. Reluctant instinct sees him up on his feet, wine and all, to cross for the door first.

“I’ll bring mine as well.”