"If I must," Emet-Selch says, so burdened by the needs of others, so terribly salty about it. He pulls open the packet, and eats his little snack cake still watching Hythlodaeus from beyond the fringe of his parted hair.

"And you?" he asks, still prim as he delicately nibbles his cake. "What, exactly, are you dropping in for?"

He knows why.