"You are ridiculous," Constance gently chides her escort, as above his japes as a stone jutting above the waves. "No. I do not think I will have time for more than one snowball fight, young man." As if she's that much older than him! "I need to know... I need to know her heart. To see it, rather than wondering for the rest of my days why she brought down that axe. Whether she deserves punishment or... mmm. This is still my responsibility. You may tempt me as you may, but do not stand between us."

The air of grim and otherworldly judgment, the sense that she is more an arbiter than a woman, dissolves when Constance finally manages to get herself in the bath. The groan that escapes her lips is blissful, and she melts into the fine wooden tub in much the same way that a stick of butter would. For a moment, she lets herself forget her shame, her knight, and her duty; the simple pleasure of hot water on aching muscles is world enough for her.