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There was only her. My one, my only, my wife.
"You forget that you’re as dead as me, boy,” Hail ground out and I shrugged. “You’re a relic. I’m a martyr. Besides, I don’t intend to remain dead for long.”
“The whole world is on a baking scale, my dear,” Hamish replied. “Bagels on the hoppity morn, scones in a crisis, jam tarts to alert the masses, and flans for a flap of flantastic design.”
“Much as I might have wished for her to find a gentle, kind soul to match with, I suppose a ferocious, passionate one will have to do.”
“You were bossy enough when there was only one of you,” she commented. “And you’re mouthy enough for two even while you sit there alone.”
