You have misled a prince, a royal king,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappied and disfigur'd clean...

Henry thinks he's being helpful. How cute.

It's not so hard, making time for one another, provided you're flexible.

"I suppose it's safe to assume you aren't here to ransom me."

Poins kills a man; the rest doesn't matter, and the prince must carry on.

Too late for Christmas, too early for the new year. (Or, Hal makes himself inconvenient in as many ways as possible.)

Richard likes secrets, and Mowbray likes oaths.

The cause is long since lost. Richard Stoker's life as measured out in documents.

India takes the cup. (Or: people disappear all the time, but seldom to such scenic locales.)

Young Talia grows in Bane's shadow.

Sui Zhou's WeChat starts firing off around midday, which does at least immediately pare down the pool of potential suspects.

"Tang Fan," she starts carefully.

Tang Fan has no such concern. "Sui Zhou," is her counter. She dumps their bag at her feet, where its gaped mouth is swiftly fed her belt and chopsticks. "Your poor delicate Qing'er," she complains. "I will find a man and his wife to show me the pity here that you won't."