"She wouldn't have to know it was from you," Lancelot offers, but he knows it probably won't make a difference. Nancy has no particular reason to trust that what he says is true, and he has no real way of proving that. He studies her a moment longer, tightens his finger around his cup and lifts it finally to take a sip.

"What did she do?" it's quiet, hesitant but genuine. "To make you so angry at her."

There must be something, he thinks, in particular. Maybe he's wrong. Maybe it's just everything. But normally -- normally this sort of thing has something at it's core. Something specific that is the real driving force behind it while everything else just builds.