"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."

After— after. When Tang Fan is home, and safe, Sui Zhou sees to it that he is comfortable, then moves to take leave of his imposition.

Surely in a world so vast there lie yet stones unturned— slippery things smalled for his spindling fingers to unearth.