That’s not how I talk when I’m buying groceries, by the way, that’s exclusively for when there’s a pissing contest going on, most usually with a man. I’m working the angle, setting out my stall—or, if you prefer, defining the exquisite contours of my bullshit—and Father Fishy gets more and more unhappy and alarmed, but at the same time he is, I trust, more and more convinced that he’s abducted the right witch. I think I’m being relatively charming. By rights, he should be covered in boils by now, or viewing the world from the perspective of a frog. I’m curious, though. He’s got a problem so bad that kidnapping a Roman citizen in the middle of the night rather than just coming to my door and asking for help seemed like the obvious solution. He thinks I have the answer and I don’t think he means to coerce it from me, I think he actually hadn’t got to this part of the plan and now he’s winging it. He’s in all kinds of trouble, if so, and of course if I’m equal to the problem he can’t solve, then by definition I’m scarier than he is, and he’s hoping he can get by without my noticing which of us holds the power in that situation.