Her sidelong glance is amused, if a little warily so; not always sure where the line is for other people on respecting belief and sending it up. He seems, at least, as if his intention is to set her at her ease, not mock her faith. It's fine.

"He's in the top ten," she allows, seeming to feel that sufficiently generous. "Maybe five, of rifters." If Galatea were to assess most strong rifters, it would go: Bronach, Iorveth, Probably Thranduil, the other tall elf one who is a lady, and then Newt, because there are only so many explanations for why Newt is still alive.

(A real mystery to her, having introduced herself to him by slapping a hand on his belly to stop him from marching towards polar bears.)

"The Inquisition can use all of our strength."