Hawk was at the end of the bed, leaning in under the canopy, a towel tucked around his waist and a smaller cloth over his damp hair. He grinned sheepishly. "I was tryin' to be quiet."

"Ah, no," Numair demurred, "The storm woke me up--oh." He spotted the somewhat guilty look that came over Hawk's face. "Never mind."

Hawk laid down on the bed on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He gave Numair an unconvincing sort of smile; Numair studied him, concerned.

"All right," he said, "you're a bit upset. What's happened?"

Hawk laid back on the pillows, discarding the cloth that had been covering his already-drying hair. "Wull, I couldn't get the machete back, for one," he admitted.

Numair stared blankly for a moment. "Oh, right," he said, remembering. Hawk had to maneuver out one wing from under him, laying it flat across the bed and allowing Numair to crawl onto it and into his outstretched arm. As Numair did, he asked, "Why couldn't you?"

Hawk hesitated. "If I tell you that it's safer for you to not know why," he said, "can you jus' trust me on that?"