Her hair trails his lap and grazes, with perfect light, softness, against his legs and hips as she dips her head back. When she rights herself it falls in a heavy curtain against her back--already his fingers card through it and comb it and he reaches over the side to pluck a fine soap off the tray.

"Not generally, no, unless I have been summoned here or there, or winter is upon us," Jaskier explains as he pours some of the lilac scented soap I to his hands and works it between his fingers. He settles them on the crown of her head and scrubs with gentle, delicate motions against her scalp.

Much like his eclectic scheduling, it is not hard to guess why he works this way. She is certainly not dirty enough to merit this attention, but he is very good at it and enjoys giving this as much as anyone has ever enjoyed receiving it.

"This year, I had thought to journey south, perhaps, or to Cidaris if that cad Marx is afield. I've always been fond of the coast."