"Can't be really good without you, anyway."

“Awww, thanks.”

He reaches up to mess with his hair.

"Hey," Camillo protests, attempting to undisarray the hair in question. (This absolutely does not work.)

This is all very ominous (aside from Z, who is not ominous at all) but at least he more or less has a plan. He can loiter about, gleaning any available information, until they're ready to get a move on, at which point he will get a move on. Simple enough.

The warriors finish out their negotiations, split to gather supplies. It sounds like he should pack up his things. Wherever those are.

Will Z help him pack? Pretty please?

Obviously yes.

It turns out that Camillo’s personal possessions are piled in a leather wrap on an as of yet unused bed tucked in the corner of the warriors’ tent. There’s not many of them — a carefully maintained prayer book, a couple changes of clothes, sundries like a flint and steel and some soap.

Z digs a bag for him out of his own chest.

"I know he's awful. But he's kind of a sweetheart, too. Somewhere in there."

If he has this conversation while Z digs through the chest he doesn't have to make eye contact.

“…where in there, though,” he says, dubiously.

He can't exactly say that Anatole is helping him plot his getaway after he murders Dorothy.

"He -- knows what it's like, not being from here. We talked about family, a little. ... he took a lock of my hair, it was really sweet."

Z sits straight up like he’s been shocked.

“He what.”

"...because I'm going on a trip, you know?"

Is Z jealous or something?

“Shit— did you see where he put it? Did he do anything to it?”

He squeezes the leather bag in his hand.

"Dude. Calm down. What?"

He stops, for a second, and looks back and forth — like he did before, like someone who’s about to choose his words very carefully.

“This particular guy — is not — somebody you want to have your hair. Or your nails, or — shit, you didn’t leave any bandages there, did you?”

"I don't ... think ... so ...?"

"...is this ... like ... a magic thing?"

“—don’t just say it!”

"I don't know your rules about these things!"

“—okay. Like I said. Do you know where he put it?”

"I didn't see."

And even if he had -- well. It's not that he's confident magic isn't real, here in dreamland, or that Anatole wouldn't use it against him. But -- now that he knows a little more -- it definitely seems like Anatole was taking the hair as insurance, not to immediately use against him. That's not worth alienating his co-conspirator over.

“Shit.”

He sits down, puts his chin in his hands.

“…you’re not gonna try to get it back, are you.”

"I don't super see it working out well for me."

“…yeah, doesn’t seem like it.”

He exhales slowly, pats him on the shoulder.

“Better pack your stuff.”

So that was way too easy.

"Don't be mad. I didn't know."

“—I’m not mad. Just — fuck, if you were gearing up to wrestle a bear at least that’d be straightforward.”

"He's not a bear. -- look, I'll talk to him after I get back, OK? I just -- don't want to fight right before I leave."