Wheeling Gull Isle chichplei

slavuj continued to speak in the thick musicality of his guttural accent, but heda was starting to parse it more easily. she laughed at the self-deprecating joke, heart buoyed by his praise and encouragement in the renewal of sweetharbor.
"oh, i know a fine singer who isn't really a wolf," heda smirked sidelong at her friend. "he has the most beautiful voice when he sings to god."
thinking of bartholomew pressed a beatific light over her alabastrine countenance, the look of a devoted nun's acolyte who has seen the striking face of a priest who will never look in her direction.