"'My houthe istht too cold,'" he echoes in a nasally, poor imitation of Finian, then continues darkly with a roll of his eyes. "It ist not zhat cold." Despite his bold claim, he nonetheless reaches into the depths of his sleeve to retrieve a stained handkerchief, which he dabs at his running nose now worryingly pink from his recent jaunt outside. "Plague breaks in crowds, remember zhat. You should haff come to mine."

He pauses a moment, glancing over his shoulder to another group across the chapel while he returns the damp cloth to his sleeve. "Fortuitous zhere ist no illness in your immediate future."