Zelda steeled herself. "We don't know much about the Picts anymore," she said, moving so that her elbows rested on the table, instead of her palms. "But we know that they painted themselves." For battles, mostly, at least according to the Romans. This was the only information that she could give him, and providing it was going to hurt - she could sense the bruise coming, for all that she could not avoid it. She could no longer look him in the eyes; that was too hard.

Zelda reached out and touched her fingertips to his palms, the lightest of touches. She was focusing on being professional, for all that her cheeks were definitely flushing.

She wished someone else had this case; she wished that she could have asked someone else to do this meeting without incriminating herself. But this was Alfred, and she owed him this - she was furious with him, but she owed him this because he was dying and because he had, at least at one point,  cared about her. And because she still cared, even if he didn't. 

"I think that as the curse activates, paint will appear on your hands," Zelda said, her voice barely above a whisper. "A swirling pattern, like this." She mimicked the pattern they had seen on several of the objects, her pulse racing.

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