[ For a moment, his composure breaks: God looks at Remina as though he is very seriously gauging whether to throw the notebook at her. With difficulty, he drops it back onto his own desk. ]

It isn't that simple.

[ He folds himself down into the seat across from Viktor, again. Pours himself a cup of tea. Lets the silence hang. ]

I am not one of my saints. [ He says nothing, again, about his cavalier. Remina watches from the corner. ] But apparently that's the intended topic of our little tea party, so I'll confirm some history.