He pulls his gaze away from the window at the touch, silently willing Raju to step back and brush his hand along his shoulders again. He fixes his face before Raju’s able to see the blatant look of longing there, focusing on the question at hand.

“Weeks, some,” he says, running his fingers through his beard as he mulls. “The fog that burned lingered for weeks, then the plague from the miasma, now this. I’d say another week or so until it dissipates or is replaced by something else, but Christ knows.”

He just wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a correlation at this point; this place doesn’t seem big on coincidences. But the intensity of things has been increasing, getting worse and worse. Who can say for certain when the green fog will lift?

Raju’s busy keeping busy with the fire, but Crozier’s not quite ready to be done caring for him. He frowns softly. “I thought you needed your hair washed.”