The half-circle of maids lit up like a festival, a joy wildly disproportionate to the task, the joy of people who had won something.
They closed around the two women in a warm tide of guiding hands and reverent chatter, and they were already halfway to the archway when Quinlan pushed off the bench he had eventually been herded onto and followed.
The tide stalled.
A dozen sets of ears swiveled toward him. The maids looked at the Holy Son, then at each other, and a silent crisis moved down the line like weather. Protocol said nothing about this. Scripture said nothing about this. Nobody breathed until the eldest maid turned, bowed to him carefully, and ventured, with the courage of her office:
"Holy Son. Do you... require something?"
Quinlan raised an eyebrow, honestly confused.
"What, I don't get scrubbed?"
A tray hit the terrace somewhere to the left. Nobody went to pick it up.
