“Stop saying that,” he says, and though the beauty of his voice rings in golden tones, as it ever will, she hears the discordant note, the irritation, the blemish on his perfect light.

“Is it not fair that people should know the truth, just this once?” Cassandra asks, her voice sharp in comparison, a jagged, wretched thing, all edges to slice herself upon. “Was that not our point of contention, after all - that you could never satisfy me, my sweet, cherished, forgiving lord?” she says, and watches his face twist, triumph dancing within her.