Your Reverence, I Do Not

His Outflung Hands Traced Over The Threads Of His Rug, Passed Loop By Loop Through Some Patient Woman's Hands. Or Maybe She Hadn't Been Patient. Maybe She'd Been Tired, Or Irritated, Or Distracted, Or Hungry, Or Angry. Maybe She Had Been Dying. But Her Hands Had Kept Moving, All The Same.

A True Vor, Miles Told Himself Severely, Does Not Bury His Face In His Liegewoman's Breasts And Cry--even If He Is At A Convenient Height For It.

Your Father Calls You To His Court. You Need Not Pack. You Go Garbed In Glorious Raiment. He Waits Eagerly By His Palace Doors To Welcome You, And Has Prepared A Place At The High Table, By His Side, In The Company Of The Great-souled, Honored, And Best-beloved.

I Have A Catch-phrase To Describe My Plot-generation Technique -- 'what's The Worst Possible Thing I Can Do To These People?'

I Miss It Every Minute, And I Have No Wish At All To Go Back.