“I'd be ‘fraid of a viper because its bite could kill me, not because I don't like the feel of it on me skin. But I'll go. You need someone who [i]does[/i] understand, to stop brasher fellas from looting cursed rubbish.”

He had relaxed some, having gotten used to the idea strangely quickly. He had to admit, if only to himself, despite his protestations it held a certain attraction to him. But that was the problem, wasn't it? To someone whose life is bound by rigid rules, the allure of breaking them is often greater than his reason. 
He had taken up a stick that he'd brought with him from the courtyard, and was carving at it thoughtfully with a table knife.

 He looked at the other man over his carving, “The magic of Whitehall is the less friendly sort. You oughta be careful what you even [i]touch[/i] in there. Forget about taking things with you. Though,” he looked back to The Lady, “I s’pose there's something you do mean for us to bring back.”