[ The Emperor Undying neatly folds the handkerchief, and does not answer her question. Instead he says, a little whimsically: ]

I knew a Eurydice.

[ He pockets the square of faded cloth and bird shit, and inspects his hands and wrists almost absently. ]

The ferryman always turned him away, after that first failed attempt. Imagine if he had built a throne upon that deep shore, only to find that there was only ever one chance at resurrection.

[ But now he has truly muddled the metaphor. He turns his gaze upon her again, his eyes oil on black. His tone drops somber, refocused. ]

I keep dominion over the River of the dead. Not locally, mind; they seem to prefer saltwater, around here.