Temeraire's visits to the chapel have been few and far between, thanks to the Valdemars' typically lax attitude toward religion; he can count the number of times he has attended a service here on the fingers of one hand. Now he takes in the sights around him with undisguised curiosity: the ramrod-straight posture of Lady Valdemar; the blank, stony stares of the saints; the dull gleam of the organ in the half-light of the chapel. It is all terribly stiff, once the novelty of it all has faded away, but there is nevertheless something familiar in the pomp and the circumstance. Temeraire himself has never been particularly religious, but he remembers the funerals in the village where he was raised, and there is not such a great difference between those ceremonies and this. He draws some comfort from the thought, if nothing else: a memory of home, so very far away.

All the same, he breathes a small sigh of relief when Lord Valdemar makes a hasty exit, and he pushes to his feet and stretches his aching back as the low murmur of the other congregants begins to fill the chapel. He is about to take his own leave when the unmistakable figure of Warsman catches his eye.

He has introduced himself to the Russian before, though only briefly; he would be lying if he said his current interest in the big man were not primarily motivated by academic curiosity. Still, even that curiosity is accompanied by a simple, straightforward interest in getting to know the other residents of the manor better, and this--a lit candle, a silent prayer--this, too, is not unfamiliar.

"Pray, what are you doing?" His voice is meant to be pitched low, but it comes out a little louder than he intended; with any luck, Warsman will interpret it as the friendly inquiry it is meant to be, rather than an accusation.