Next morning, like all mornings in the Kingdom, there is ice cream.
As Imago and I march into the village of Cristobal, the locals are just opening the transubstantiator--one of the matter converters that can change anything into anything else. Even the tiniest town in the Kingdom has at least one, thanks to the King.
Freezing mist puffs out when they pop up the lids on the gleaming waist-high silver pods, pulling out white scoops the size of baseballs flecked with black and brown. Laughing as they pop them out with their bare hands and toss them to the crowd.
Children scramble away with armloads, melting ice cream running from their elbows. Old men cradle single scoops in wooden bowls, while young men steal licks between juggling and pitching the scoops at each other.
I wish I coul
