In Which Lonriad Confides in His Dog

June 22, 1189

"Well, Snowdrop." Lonriad scratched behind the ears of the now-inappropriately-named dog, not nearly so white as the day he'd brought her home. He'd gotten her for Asalaye back when she was a tiny puppy--and back when Asalaye had been pregnant with Sevvie. "You're getting rather up there in dog years, aren't you?"

Snowdrop yipped. Never in a thousand years would Lonriad have imagined that the dog would outlive his wife. It would have taken even longer to entertain the idea that he might one day find another woman he'd even consider marrying.

And yet, both had happened. He still wasn't sure what to do about the latter.

"Do you think Asalaye will understand?" He did still love her. He always would. He knew it, the kids knew it, even the dog probably knew it. But did Asalaye, wherever she was?

The dog sniffed. Helpful.

"I mean... if it had been me, I'd like to think she would have found someone else, eventually. But I guess that's easy for me to say, not knowing what it's like.

"Any point asking you how you'd take it, if you were gone and the stray from the butcher's back alley started humping some other dog?"

A yap. Nope.

"I just... I know enough people who made it work twice to know it's possible to love two people, you know? And if only one of them is alive, and you've had time to make peace with the other, then there's no sense in not trying, is there?"

Was there? Was there any sense in him at the moment?

He was talking to a dog, after all.

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