He grinned down at her brightly once she’d dropped the bundle of black cloth on the floor. For the first time in all the years she’d known him, his hair was a mess: sticking up in the back, exposing a cowlick at the crown of his head. There was something boyish to it, something that invoked words like "rascal’ or "rapscallion’, a notion that was only emphasised by the downright Victorian linen undershirt he wore.