Brigham himself had been called away after a time. The need for healing herbs, and Inquisition soldiers arriving with new wounds. The day has been long, and whatever dampness had been on the quilt had likely since dried, even in such humid weather.

"Ah," he mumbles, as if suddenly remembering, and he reaches to take the blanket. "Thank you, Your Worship." He thinks there are soldiers that need it more than he, especially wounded, he makes note to take it to them, instead - not to slight the Inquisitor's favor, but surely he would understand. "How are you feeling?"