He'd already made his way through so many bottles to even make a dent in someone his size, with his durability and metabolism, but the coffee and food is helping him sober up, too. Clarifying some of that muzzy angry blur from earlier in the evening, leaving him cold and exhausted.

"I was," he says, "but turns out that doesn't actually count for much."

Because if so, who sends away their favourite like that? Like a broken toy that's immediately discarded, packed away in a box and shoved out of sight. A prize horse shot after breaking a leg. No longer of use.

"I'm sorry we left you out of things." It's a sudden blurting-out, so many years too late. "It was-- I remember thinking it was for your own good. For your safety. He always told us you couldn't keep up, that you couldn't be on the team. I got blinded by that, I think." Obedience was so hardwired in him; he hadn't even thought of defying or contradicting Sir Reginald's opinion back in those days. Wouldn't have dreamt of it.