Faolan watches the other man's expression for a few silent moments, trying (and failing) to determine just what that look means. Or rather, what it could mean on Lancelot's face in particular.

He licks his lips, contemplating how to respond. He could lie, of course. Or only tell a portion of the truth. Something about being asked the question has him questioning whether he really has been dosed for a moment. Whether this is a leftover of the tea, perhaps, that never quite went away. Or perhaps something else that he never even registered that had been targeted specifically at him. But even thinking about it, knowing how he's felt, knowing how it's progressed, he knows that that's ridiculous and he quickly pushes the thought away.

Faolan glances down at his plate, prodding at his food for a moment or so, before putting his utensils down entirely. "Lancelot, I don't..." He reaches up to gather the blanket closer around himself. "Unless it should have been a terribly long-lasting sort of enchantment, I don't really think..." He trails off, more than a little self-conscious about being forced into such an admission in such a way.