These moments found him, in every corner of the world. Not every day. But some.

Turning a corner, or opening a door, or with a fork halfway to his mouth. There she would be.

Not her precisely. Just a feeling, sun-warm on his face. And he would remember the squint in the corner of her eye, and the smell of her hair, and the time she.

The time she.

Cavalier and crass, he’d pulled himself through her window. The moon burned through white curtains.

Simon Garamonde was a well-made young man, and she had laughed at his boasting – laughed at his jibes – laughed at the wine running down his chin, covering her own with a slender hand. The drink burned, and the feast hall dimmed as he promised the night.

This was not the first ivy wall he had climbed, or eager bed he had tumbled into. But this time was different.

She had expected him, pushing the curtains away with a grin. Earnest and unimpressed, she scolded him like the family cat — even as she pulled him closer.

Gold. Like gold pouring over him. Her smile and gold.

In later times, in drunken rhymes, he’d tried to explain to a few comrades. The gold. The moon and the gold. Pouring over him, and burning — but cleaning, the meaning, the cold, the gold, and the moon.

Ah, it broke him. Broke him right in two.