He thinks, with sudden amused malice, of little Alina's horror of she knew that her lips had brushed against the Black Heretic's, if she so much as dreamed that the hair she wound her fingers through was that of a man who'd lived twenty times her lifespan, if she had any inkling of the weariness he feels without her, day in and day out--
He thinks of her warm hands pulling away, her eyes shuttering; he thinks of the instant even her seemingly boundless faith will shatter.
He thinks he might see fit to hold his tongue for some time longer.