For a moment, Rainhart allowed himself to imagine that King Godfrey had never been murdered, he and Philomena had married, and this was part of their wedding tour. She came into his room–as she would have done every night since their wedding night–and slipped into his arms, letting him dig his fingers into her unravelling braids and pull them out. She would be wearing–

Oh great and lesser gods, blast it. He pressed his lips together and shook his head once.


(Settle down, young man!)