Seeing Preston sinking into a couch, out of the ramrod-straight posture that they'd both been drilled in, was enough to make the corner of Errol's mouth twitch again.
"No, I don't," he said quietly. "I've made a few friends, though." And one possibly more-than-friend. He thought that he might love Beauty, though the thought was painful and frightening. The last woman he'd loved had been Mary, and that had gone sour with his black moods and his position as a Cleric driving a wedge through them slowly but surely. What if he drove Beauty off again? At least now, she knew that he was a killer at heart. She knew a little of his past, and she hadn't run. That counted for something.
"I've made a life for myself here--a real life, not the parody that we had in Libria," he said. "I've been working here for years now."