Cam purses her lips, lifting an eyebrow in a faintly impressed expression of consideration. For someone in the throes of heartbreak and several weeks of holding his breath before that, Cam would argue Pal's keeping excellent tabs on the politics of the Library (well, she'd have made the argument anyway, but she believes it, which is more important). "Not wrong," she replies mildly. "Oh, and a truly enthralling debate over dessert about whether your moves to increase competency in the Spire will turn out to better or worsen genetic spread, and Captain Promachos implying something about me that she almost certainly thought was more flattering and less creepy than it was."

At another time he might be incensed or at least intrigued by such gossip: now it seems just as inane as it is.

She crosses her arms around her waist, still a little fitful, and leans back against the desk facing him. She thinks about the things in that statement that are false, and true, and both at once. "No," Cam says, slowly and practically, "we both know it doesn't. But you've never had to watch her do it. She hates pity, Pal. Can you imagine her waiting for the day it comes from you?"

That's not even getting to the real impossibility, but that doesn't mean it isn't there.