Sir Terry Pratchett awakens. A skeleton stands at his bedside, wearing a long black robe. He sits up. “Well, hang on, let me get my hat,” he tells it.
The skeleton reaches into its robe. From abyssal depths it produces a heavy book bound in sheets of lead and night. It is the kind of book that gets stolen by a rugged adventurer from a temple with more spike-traps than the average house of worship contains. It is the kind of book to which the word “tome” might properly be applied. Frost forms on its pages from the lingering chill of the void.
The skeleton coughs once and holds the book out to the man sitting on the bed.
uh i got bored and doodled. i like to pretend that beatrice was a real good kiddo before roberia became queen!!! and three years is long enough for her to get a lil sneaky with the prime minister heeeheehee! idk i just think it would be rly sad/cute if she wanted to get revenge for giulietta heheheheheeee