Inric stares at the page for a long time, reading over and over the description of the jewellery found on the bodies. Reading one description in particular. A description of a torc, made of short segments of metal joined by beads, with ornamentation on the outer segments. It's accompanied by a picture, so he can't even pretend it's not the one he remembers. The one he first saw around his brother's neck, a little way into the long, involved courtship with the woman he would marry, and who would become Anvar's mother. He'd asked what it was when he saw it, and Varin, his face alight with pleasure, had said "it's a betrothal gift! I think she likes me." Inric puts his free hand to his face, unable to hide what he's feeling. The memory is too bright.