[The faint glow of weeping candles draws Margaery into the chapel, steps light as she walks down the aisle, caressing pews with her fingertips like an uncertain bride. Once she comes upon Colette, she licks those same fingertips of hers, pinching one of the lit candlewicks to put it out. With the loss of that flickering flame, the light dims just a little. Perhaps it might draw the girl's eye away from her pages of fire and brimstone for just a moment.]

You should be outside, taking some hapless dandy out on the floor for a whirl.

[Not that the girl was asking Margaery but butting into other people's business has always been a bit of a compulsion.]

I doubt our Lord wants you withering on the vine before you head for the abbey.