[She watches him carefully, keeping her hands to herself as she quietly murmurs:] It's cruel. The pain I mean - if it were true, we'd at least be dead and not feel it.

Think of it as another affirmation that it's not real.

[Her own England would have clawed her eyes out for intruding the private nation's personal space, but Francisca still found herself moving around until she was standing before Arthur, gracefully dropping down to her knees and taking his shaking hand in her own.]

Best not to dwell on it.

[He smaller hands curled around his, giving it a gentle squeeze.]

Come, I have some rum left somewhere - that should put the colour back in your cheeks.