[Sarcastic condescension is a note that no one but her nearest and least dear companions have attempted to play for the Saint in millennia. Even the puerile, squawking fools of the Edenities have had more sense than to try it, save for one dreadful incompetent. It supplants whatever heretical and evidently dead little superstition from some badly named planet the girl is babbling about in Joy's interest, her head cocking as she looks at the still nameless child as if she cannot quite understand the words falling out of her mouth.]
Aren't you a clever one?
[She asks, breathily rhetorical, with the lightest unsheathing of an edge in her tone, a razor scraped across velvet.]
Oh, a Saint does die for her God, a thousand times over. [She runs her tongue over her teeth, turned abruptly conversational.] And then once. Is that what this is all about, then?
no subject
Aren't you a clever one?
[She asks, breathily rhetorical, with the lightest unsheathing of an edge in her tone, a razor scraped across velvet.]
Oh, a Saint does die for her God, a thousand times over. [She runs her tongue over her teeth, turned abruptly conversational.] And then once. Is that what this is all about, then?