[ Alicent settles her other hand atop Shadowheart's, the woman's one cupped between her two. A gesture to comfort, guarding her against the cold or the unease that makes her head turn away. Profile sharpened by the moonlight, the slight tension of her jaw brought into relief. Prideful and private herself, Alicent decides against questioning the act or the slight tremor in her flesh.

Instead, she answers dryly, ]

I doubt it to be local to England, where we find ourselves — but to the manor? [ She hums, head tilting into her shoulder. ] The locus of all that is strange and miraculous in this realm? [ A huff of air. ] Quite possibly.

[ So many ceremonies have passed since she arrived. The cleansing of the House, to rid itself of the wolf. The bloody feast held in honour of the vampires. Even the offerings of flesh made to their wintry gods. Her abstention led to her doom, then. She'll not repeat that mistake. ]

As for whether faith comes into it, [ the hand not entwined with Shadowheart's slides up her arm, fingertips dragging along her pulse. ] perhaps for those orchestrating these affairs. You'll find the residents to be a largely godless assembly. [ observed, and not without judgment. ] It simply behooves them to indulge and obey, lest the gods find them wanting.

[ She presses her thumb into Shadowheart's bare shoulder, still aiming to ground and soothe. ]

— shall I help take down your hair? It'll tangle something dreadful, if you leave it up.