Dinadan cracks one eye open, which is something he appreciates being able to do, because when last he checked, he was dead.

The sky above is a perfect, Virgin's-robe blue, dotted with fluffy clouds that drift slowly on the gentle breeze. When he inhales (again, extremely surprised to be inhaling), the air smells of sticky green vegetable stalks and fresh-turned earth and wood shavings.

His hand goes unconsciously to the wound at the base of his ribs. He can feel it still, a deep divot beneath the tacky dried blood on his shirt, but it hurts like something healed rather than like something actively killing him right this instant (which, at the risk of repeating himself, is a delightful change of pace). His hand slides up to the strap of his rebec, which by some miracle has slid around so that the instrument hasn't been crushed beneath him.

He cracks the other eye, and with a tremendous groan, he heaves himself to sitting and takes stock of his surroundings. A broad lake, silvered with ripples in the light wind; a surprisingly well-appointed cottage; a mural of improbably gifted chickens engaged in artistic and athletic endeavors.

All around him, a garden just on the edge of ripeness.

This is probably not Heaven, Dinadan thinks, because he cannot imagine anyone arriving in Heaven by landing arse-first in a cabbage patch.