[A second face comes into view, peering over Tig's (or whoever he is) shoulder. Duke is not decisive, merely curious, and looks past the standing boy to the sleeping one.]

Tis possible he's merely taken ill
Or did some little damage to his head.
It were enough to send me to my bed
If I were struck, unhappy, on my crown.

[Is he city-born? Is his friend? The question catches his attention for a moment.

If there are fae, sirrah, we know them not
And have not looked upon their work till now.