Jaskier sets the tub where she likes and reclaims the pitcher and glasses before finishing his idle stroll to her side. He pours as he walks, a skill cultivated over many years of practice, and offers up a glass before taking a careful seat alongside her. He sets the pitcher aside and, as he bends, two maids hustle in through the open door.

One has two pitchers of water, the other only one but also a tray of delicate containers. They dump the steaming water into the tub, set the salts and perfumes aside, and then hurry out without so much as making eye contact with either of them. Their cheeks appeared to have been burning just slightly.

"I think we might have been loud," Jaskier whispers aside, over the rim of his glass. He does not sound apologetic or regretful in the slightest. Without thinking, his hand comes up and brushes some of her dark hair over her shoulder, uncovering her face so he can see it better from the side.

It is a liberty he never dreamed he would have taken and now he does it thoughtlessly.

"I suppose I shall have to tip them when they bring us breakfast," he muses and takes a sip of the juice in his glass. He glances back as they return with another four pitchers of steaming water and the tub is nearly half filled.

"They certainly earned it."