"Father, did you choose to make a certain impression on the Saintess?"
Bimo's voice floated up from beside him. They had left the temple behind and were winding through the narrow alleys of the capital's outer district, where the shadows pooled thick and the lanterns were spaced just far enough apart to leave pockets of convenient darkness between them.
"For example?" Roarke asked, not looking down.
"An honest, kind healer who cares about others." Bimo ticked the qualities off on his fingers. "Despite your circumstance. You know, humble, sympathetic, the sort of man who asks a troubled Saintess to get some rest because he genuinely worries for her wellbeing."
A pause.
"Well, since you, as a werewolf with a near-perfect humanoid form who is also a healer, already stand out, it made sense. People expect a story. You gave them one."
Roarke's stride did not change. "Are you implying that my cover is not ideal?"
