Silvertip Mountain this i know: the snow won't fall on me

The pause gave him just enough time to regret the question, but before he could take it back, Phocion was speaking. His eyes were wide, fixed on the priest as he hung on to every word. They fell like the rain; soft and slow, but they built ultimately into something that washed across him overwhelmingly. For several beats he was quiet, thinking.
It was hard to imagine that Engel had been paying attention to any of that, but that wasn't what he was thinking at all. Engel had not said any of those things. Cortland's gaze drifted to the ground, ears flushing hot now. The way your eyes shine when the moon hits them. O-oh... He breathed softly, an unfamiliar warmth filling his chest. The Mayfair glanced back to Phocion shyly. He could not think of anything to say, but perhaps his expression said enough. Engel had been forgotten entirely.