Jaskier makes a small surprised sound in the back of his throat--her question about his living still was not unusual, but the tacit offer to see him dead was a shock. He forgets, sometimes, that many of the people he knows are entirely capable of eliminating those that displease them--or, if they are feeling generous and inclined--those that displease him. He draws her close as she turns back, pulls her back against his chest so that she may stretch out as much as the tub allows, and wraps her in a loose embrace.

"Honestly, the cruelest fate for Valdo is going unknown," Jaskier muses with a note of smugness. "For all my songs grate on me, they are each of them nails in his foppish coffin. I cannot imagine how much he must have suffered when Toss a Coin first swept through Cidaris. Weeks after his thieving hands stole my music and suddenly he is awash in it."

He still gloats about that, about his own popularity with the people where Marx has failed to make a foothold. The face Valdo makes, each time, is nearly worth the humiliation and heartbreak he'd suffered.

"Now, before I ramble on about more past loves to my newest paramour--a terrible breech of affairs, I must say--tell me, sweetling, what scented soaps and salts would you prefer? We have quite an assortment."