A smile quickens on his lips. "I think she and Lucy could be friends," he says. "She has the same way of looking upon the world with wonder--she knows the name of every flower in the queen's gardens, and every herb in the field and every weed along the roadsides. She knows them not by rote, abstractly, but with the intimacy of dear friends. She can be sharp in her speech, at times--always clear and direct as a blade. She never learned the trick of speaking prettily when she had nothing to say, which in courtiers is thought an effervescent wit. They thought her rude, when she was a child. But ... I know not how to say it. I miss her sharpness. I miss how she would tease me, and chastise me, and ferret out my hypocrisies. I miss her."