"The head," Lancelot says, still perhaps not being entirely clear. "The -- ah, forgive me if this is hard to explain. I'm not so sure I know what happened myself, but the... magic I sensed of it. I think it may be -- stronger? Than I am used to? Or -- well, perhaps not, but either way I... felt something. Beyond the magic itself. Perhaps something to do with -- the person this was? Without knowing her that makes it difficult to say."

He winces apologetically, frowning as he tries to focus on the memory.

"Forgive me," he says again finally, "I don't suppose you have something to drink?"