Life is random, chaotic, cruel: not fair. Grace stands by that, which is why she can't believe in anything but a vengeful god.

She stops getting the mare ready, staring at the stirrup she'd just lowered into place. The other's still crossed over the pommel, making it look like a weird sort of side-saddle.

"Shit."

She figures that's more welcome than I'm sorry, even though she is.

"None of it makes sense," she grunts at last.

Life. Love. This place.