Solomon didn't have anything to bathe. He'd heard he could make some kind of substitute, but as yet he hadn't been given any reason to put in the effort. Every kedan to whom he spoke insisted it was worthwhile, and there was one particularly persistent cultist who seemed determined to spread festival-related joy and happiness, but thus far Solomon had resisted.

Until he saw the woman with the small crucifix in her hands, plunging it into the water. Without quite meaning it, he stopped and watched until she had withdrawn it. The action was altogether too much like a baptism for him to escape wondering whether it was for the woman's sake, or someone to whom the cross had belonged before.

A cross. Of all things to purify. Or drown.

"For whose benefit is that?" he asked neutrally. Once upon a time he'd owned a cross like that, when he'd been a boy. Several lifetimes ago.