Gently, in shaking fingers, he takes the handkerchief - it's clean, compared to his, delicate and soft, smelling of roses. Looking at it makes him want to cry, but he keeps trying to bite it back. If he starts to cry, it's only going to make this harder.

"...All right, my dear. When - when you leave here, before dawn...I need you to - to make noise. So that someone will come, and know-"

He chokes - wobbling, leaning harder against his lover, blood soaking into the cloth in a spreading stain. Swallowing hard, he continues, hoarsely.

"...And know that the...the flock will...will need someone."

Warily, he looks Herbert in the eyes, letting the implication fall upon him.