"No, you are not." He has the same eerie, angelic singularity of purpose that Laertes only briefly glimpsed in Galahad--but where Galahad is mist and starlight, silver and glass, Enjolras is an engine of flesh and blood. Laertes has fallen asleep with Galahad in his arms, and still Enjolras feels more solid and touchable.

He is not permitted to touch.

"I'll continue the hunt for Socrates," he says. "And if I find it, I'll share that with you, too. If nothing else, I hope it will be more welcome than mischief."