[ The glance up that Sabine gives Alistair, in this first instance, is a little guarded -- like perhaps he is making fun of her rather than himself. But his shoulders fall out of their horizon and his tone shifts, and she wrinkles her nose too late, a suppression of amusement in spite of herself.

She cleans her knife against a cloth. ]

He says that the things he has done are worse than that of de Chevin. [ She shrugs, a jerky, irritated movement, watching Alistair's knife. ] He seems to have more friends than de Chevin. Either he does not understand, or he thinks too much of the things he has done--

--or perhaps he is merely biding his time with you. [ Sabine reaches out, scooping up onion quarters to deposit into pot. ] And we are such fools.