Page 52 of Paladin's Faith

“Children…” said Marguerite.

Wren made a face. “You sound just like the Bishop when you say that.”

“My respect for the Bishop grows by leaps and bounds.” She laughed ruefully. “Anyway. If you run into your mystery man again, let me know.”

“I don’t think he meant anything bad,” said Wren hesitantly.

Marguerite smiled. “Almost certainly not,” she said. “There are some good men out there still, even in this fallen world.”

Shane’s grunt was practically volcanic, but he didn’t argue.

Someone knocked on the door. Shane picked up his sword and went to answer it. Marguerite put down her pen, assuming that it was most likely a page with a message for her. An invitation, most likely. Or a proposition. She’d already received several of each and had accepted two of the invitations, and put off the propositions while leaving the door open to the future.

It was a surprise, therefore, when Shane returned, followed by a nervous looking young page. “I have a meeting,” he said. “Wren, you’re—”

Marguerite cleared her throat and flicked her eyes to the page.

“—absolutely right,” Shane said hurriedly. “Right. Yes. Absolutely.”

Marguerite stifled a sigh. Beartongue had warned her that Shane was a terrible liar, and she hadn’t been wrong. I assume that was going to be “Wren, you’re in charge. Make sure no one stabs Marguerite before I get back.” Which is not the sort of thing you say to a lady about a member of her entourage.

“Of course I’m right,” said Wren, slightly quicker on the uptake. “Always. Enjoy your meeting.” She waved.

Shane belted his sword around his hips and went into his room briefly, then emerged. “Lead the way,” he told the page. The door shut behind them.

“Huh,” said Marguerite, putting her chin in her hand. “Now that’s interesting. Is our broody friend getting laid, do you think?”

“Shane? No, I…huh.” Wren wrinkled her nose. “Er. I suppose it’s possible?”

“He’s a very handsome man,” said Marguerite, amused by the dismay in Wren’s voice. “Some women might notice.”

“I guess.” Wren sounded very much like a little sister forced to contemplate her brother’s love life. “Huh. I almost wish he was. He hasn’t really been interested in anyone since…”

Marguerite lifted her eyebrows. “Since?” There was an odd feeling in her gut. She examined it dispassionately and realized that it felt almost like jealousy.

Now you’re just being ridiculous.

“When the Saint died…” Wren spread her hands. “Women were always interested in him before.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Yeah. They probably still would have been afterward, but it’s like he stopped caring very much. And then he grew that beard.”

“Oh god, the beard.” No, women probably hadn’t been lining up to fight their way through that.

Wren shook her head. “Anyway,” she said, after a moment, “it took a couple of us that way. Stephen…well, you know Stephen.”

Marguerite nodded, thinking of Grace’s somber paladin. “I imagine it was very hard.”

Wren shrugged one shoulder, clearly unwilling to get into details. “Yeah. But it’s been what, almost six years now? We move on or we don’t.”

“Yes, of course.” Marguerite bade Wren a pleasant night and retired to her bed. Well. That’s interesting.

And none of my business. Shane is probably still in mourning for his god. I don’t have the time, the energy, or the patience to compete with a ghost.

And while my ego is extremely well-developed, I also don’t know if I can compete with a god.

She thought about this for a few moments, then snorted into the darkness. If he keeps being adorable and companionable, though, I might be tempted to give it a try.

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