I looked down at my wet Divining robe, thin and clinging. Lecher. “Why does the king have spring water in that flagon?” “Don’t know what you mean.” “I could smell it.” “You sure you weren’t just smelling yourself? You reek of Aisling.” The knight was tall—but he did not wield it. Knees bent, he kept his weight pitched forward in a lazy slouch, like it was a labor standing at full height.
Gillig is so fucking good with her dialogue and descriptors it's all so fucking delicious
