Love is tears of joy, this is the baptism of fingers. (L'amour, c'est larme de joie, - C'est le baptême des doigts)

Traigh came to help her dismount, a broad smile making creases around his eyes. “I fear ye missed our summer, Joie.” Her brow drew in with confusion. “But it is summer, Traigh,” she told him. “Aye, it might well be summer elsewhere in the world, but here, it only last three days. We had our summer last week.