He's been almost murdered much worse than that, and entirely murdered that one time; don't flatter yourself. He doesn't answer for a moment that might be a minute or not - it's so hard to tell, in dreams - and stares up at the sky, which isn't twinkling exactly like the night sky should, and that might alarm him if anything alarmed him anymore. When the moment passes, his brow unfurrows from thought and a small smile graces his face.

"She knows not what the curse may be," he begins, quiet but effusive. "Therefore she weaveth steadily, therefore no other care hath she, the Lady of Shallott."