Palamedes stops short, and looks up, and goes still.

Last time he’d seen Cecelia, she had lain still in his lap, her head nearly severed with rot, far part help. And though he had known she would return, it’s still a shock of a miracle to see her whole.

“Cecelia,” he exhales, rooted to the spot. “Emperor’s bones, it is good to see you, my friend.”