"If it helps," Matt says mordantly, scraping the last of the paint from his hair, "I've been stuck here for months now. And as far as I'm concerned, the Balfours are all out of chances."

All of a sudden, Harry's a one-man marching band of mixed signals. Coming closer, but averting his gaze, also placing his hands beside Matt on the counter. There could be a lot of reasons for any of these gestures, so Matt swallows his disappointment at what feels like a moment of missed connection and focuses back on the matter at hand.

"Uh--" A quick smile. "I pretty much said everything that mattered about the colors. How did you want to get started with this?" He gestures between them with a flick of his fingers. "Now that I'm squeaky. Basically ritually cleansed."

As he says this last part, Matt reaches back to the sink, which is still running, and scoops one last palmful of water. He lets it spill over the crown of his head, huffing and blinking to get the droplets out of his eyes.

"'Here grant to us a share of dew, like mothers in their longing love.'"

Only then does he kill the tap.