Constance takes the rooms in— more luxury than she’s ever had in her life, certainly. Her own furnishings back home? They’re quite modest. She is a representative of the old faith, not a member of the nobility.

So for his kindness and care, the knight receives a smile as delicate as the snowflake that lands on the back of one’s palm. “Thank you, Sir Harold,” she says. “This is more than I had hoped. May the castle remember your service when we are both departed.”

Behind her, Tristan lets out a little whoop of joy, and Constance exhales through her nostrils in something that is almost, impossibly, laughter.