“I see.” Lemony squinted at his cards. “And where did you say you found this boy?”

Well, it seems the fact that you and Adrahil sudenly became parents, surprised many people.

I let out a heavy sigh, even though I was winning. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want me to have a child.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Lemony, his eyes hopping between the cards and me, “I am not capable of hearing happy news and being nothing but happy.”

I prepared a witty remark.

“Or,” he said, cutting me off mid-thought, “perhaps I’m just jealous.”

I quietly placed my Queen of Spades under my King of Hearts. I knew he didn’t mean to upset me. He never did. He was like his father; a painfully practical man, trying to solve every problem before it even occurred. “Well, if things go pear-shaped,” I said, using a word that makes pears feel bad, “I can always give him a ring.”

“What if he’s preoccupied with the forty-some farmhands he’s just hired, many of whom are very tall and very unpredictable?”

“It’s Erithir who’s hired them, not Therril. Therril only has Louella and the kids from 3.”

“A girl in critical condition who’s only just started to operate a wheelchair. Likely to require emergent treatment more than once in the near future.”

“What makes you so sure the boy will live, now that you’ve removed him?” he asked. “Have you forgotten that fanfiction you read to me—oh, what was it called? Ours Is The Fury?”

“Hear Me Roar,” I corrected. “And no, I have not.” Being reminded of that story—in which a young man who finds himself transformed into Joffrey Baratheon strives to undo the injustices of Westeros, only to find that they happen with or without his input—made it hard to find my next words. As usual, my Mr. Snicket had a point. “But Therril was able to bring little Louella McCoy back to life, and she was dead enough to be a fully sentient ghost.”

“Therril’s ability to raise the dead should not be treated as normal, natural, or replicable. Unless he’s going to move in with you as well, I would not take his godly act as encouragement.”

“Sunrise on the Reaping,” I told him. “You should read it. Both the original version and the altered one have a great deal to say.”

“I must admit, I hardly propelled myself through Ms. Collins’s first book,” said Lemony, looking through his deck for the third time. “I do believe our world is full enough with dead children, and the masterfully written emotion only makes me concerned for the author’s mental health.”

“A reasonable opinion. And a reason to remove someone from that horrid world.”