Faolan's eyes narrow slightly, the expression on his face equal parts confused and incredulous. Does Lancelot honestly believe that this is related to the tea? ...had he really been as bad as that last night? He honestly can't remember all that well, the alcohol having obscured not only his judgment in the moment but his recall here in the light of day. But honestly, to assume that over the far simpler truth of the matter?

"...I should go," he says, at last, moving to attempt to push his chair back, trying to ignore the roiling in his stomach, now caused not only by the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before, but also because he thinks it's a spell and the thought of it makes him sick and angry and he should get himself out of there before he does something he regrets. Something else.