[ Matt's eyebrows arch gently as the stranger ducks his head to enter the chapel. He finds he likes the gesture, the echo of genuflection that feels appropriate to a sacred space. He likes the stranger's voice, too. From his perch atop the altar, Matt lets his lashes dip as its tones sink into his skin.

The hauteur and condescension don't seem to bother him. ]

That's a question with a multifaceted answer, [ he notes with a small smile. ] But partly ... so I could meet you. I'm pretty sure. [ Matt lifts his hand from its exploration of the cinder-colored rose and its fanglike thorns. With a flick of his fingers and a quick indrawn breath, the air in the chapel seems to change--it warms and shimmers, as if illuminated by flecks of sun-gilt dust. The yellow flowers in Marazhai's pouch untuck themselves and flutter through the air, floating into Matt's outstretched fingers. His smile now is a touch breathless, triumphant. ] We match. I don't really believe in coincidence.

[ His thumb brushes up the stalk of the cowslip. ]

And I think this means I win.