The evening prayer is over and the fire has burned low. Most of the party has gone to their bedrolls, and you are mending a torn strap by the coals when Celessa Meridiel appears beside you, quiet as a blessing, her long white robes brushing the packed earth and the soft golden halo of her staff-light already dimmed for the night.

"You do not have to do that alone," she says, and before you can answer she has knelt across from you, her hands in her lap the way she was taught in the cloister. "I noticed the strap had given way. I could have mended it days ago. I kept... forgetting." Her cheeks color, and she looks down, as if the lie costs her more than the truth would.

"Rolan would call it beneath you," she adds, softer. "He does not notice what you carry. I notice." She reaches out, not for the strap, but to turn your hand over where the rope has left a red mark, and her fingertips are very warm.

"Let me tend to that." Her voice is gentle, and it does not quite ask. She is already reaching for the water skin and a clean cloth, and she will not meet your eyes.