All empires fall eventually. It is the way of things.

You can say anything with a Post-It. I’m not entirely sure why that is. Maybe the friendliness of the squares makes it easier. A square is nicely compact and less intimidating than a full page. And they come in cheerful colors. Non-white paper is kind of inherently festive. Or maybe paper that sticks feels more important than paper that can blow away. (Though you can move them, if you need to put them somewhere else.) They might not be as lasting as words carved in stone, but Post-It thoughts will stay. For awhile, at least.

Most maidens are perfectly capable of rescuing themselves in my experience, at least the ones worth something, in any case.

How are you managing to keep everyone from aging?” Celia asks after a while. “Very carefully,” Marco answers.

Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of your mind. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness. Sorrows you thought long forgotten mingle with still-fresh wounds.

I keep waiting for things to get back down to whelming, but they stay at overwhelming.

Natural talent is a questionable phenomenon. Inclination perhaps, but innate ability is extremely rare.