They’d had a conversation, once. A long time ago, and not so very long at all. The Herald. Trevelyan. Two faces within one. She had surely seen ugly moments. Small ones. Selfish. A collection of flaws, occluded by sacrifice.

A peculiar inversion now. Living, Emeric is in no danger of finding his faults obscured. His virtues?

She watches the wall, grants Gwen what little space may be afforded.

"It shall," If only in a burning wick, a snatched line of ink. Emeric Vauquelin, she can imagine it beginning, has ideals. No more insane a suggestion than anything else she need write. "I swear it."