"You sound like Gertrude," Claudius says -- a statement that would ordinarily make him smile. As he gazes down into the dark drink, his face doesn't change. He twirls the glass, from habit, and the sludge fails to swirl. "Whenever her son Hamlet was ill. He was often ill as a child, like I was." We should've both died in our cribs, he thinks. But he swallows his medicine all the same. The texture's no worse than posset curds with cocksparrow bones to rouse the sanguine humors, the wine no more bitter than wormwood beer for fever and for choler. Only the salt-taste of cheese surprises him, and it's a distant, dull surprise.