'Good' isn't exactly the word he'd have used, himself. Lancelot lets out a heavy sigh and leans back in his chair, picks up the Samoyed property laws travel mug that Faolan had given him in may and sips lukewarm coffee from it.

"Possible secrecy law breach," he says, and flips around the file he had open so it faces him. "Too public to dig into openly."