With that, he walked over to another girl, this one younger—around fifteen or sixteen, with a more delicate face.
Murphy frowned slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.
Quentin seemed to notice his reaction. He glanced at the girl beside him, then at Rosalyn, and laughed heartily. "What's wrong? Not satisfied? Let me tell you, Murphy, I've saved the very best for you."
He walked back to Murphy's side and lowered his voice, a playful glint in his tone. "This young lady, Rosalyn, has quite the background. Eight years ago, during the selection for the new Saint, she managed to make the Morning Star Bell let out the faintest of chimes. Rosalyn Novik, from that ancient Monk Clan famous for generations of seclusion, ascetic cultivation, and unwavering faith. So? Am I not good to you?"
Murphy was silent for a moment.
'In my long life, I've seen so much that this sort of thing should no longer surprise me.'
