"Tybalt is fine," you blurt out. You do not explain who Tybalt is, or how he thinks himself lord of every sunbeam, and how he got into a fight with a badger early in the spring but now is well recovered. No, you have a priest to deal with. You don't think of Cerwen as a bad person, or a serious adversary, or anything silly like that; you are aware that she is doing her best to understand the world, to do what is right, just like you do. Her saints and prayers and Mary are a different side of a coin, and a monastery is a different sort of coven. Insofar as you are rivals, you are like two players in a game of strike-the-ball.

But this is what you are [i]for[/i]. This is yours, and you dig your heels in on instinct and lift your chin. "And you expect me to yield on your say-so, Cerwen? [i]Really?[/i]" She's playing from the wrong script; this is how you approach a Father Abbot, not a child of the Old Blood. So you gesture meaningfully at the bundled gifts in the knight's arms.

You don't actually mind yielding. Much. But here she is, encroaching on your rites, and it's not like you interrupt her while she's talking to her Mary and Child. The absolute least she can do is acknowledge the rules that [i]you[/i] play by. You offer a gift. You make a request. And you let the Lady of the Low act on your behalf.

Play [i]along,[/i] Cerwen. Bend a little like a reed, and the two of you can call upon the Christ-Child and the Wheel of the Year together, asking for mercy side by side; or she can cling to her pride, and watch it break upon the rocks of stony majesty. She'll blink first; you know it.