Wimsey: Dad, I’m worried about Mortimer.
James: Why Wimsey, what’s wrong?
Wimsey: It seems like he’s just gotten old overnight. I can’t believe how grey and bent he looks all of a sudden.


James: Yes, Wimsey, that’s what happens when Sims get old.
Wimsey: But Mortimer can’t be old already! We’ve hardly had any time together! What if you gave him some of your Ambrosia?
James: Now, Wimsey, you know that only Dynasty Sims can have Ambrosia. Don’t you think I’d like your mother to eat Ambrosia too? But she and Mortimer can’t have it because they’re not of our bloodline.
Wimsey: It’s so unfair! I can’t bear to think of Mum and Mortimer … dying!
James: Yes, child, I feel the same way. But one thing I’ve learned from my nights in the graveyard is that death doesn’t have to mean a final parting.
Wimsey: What on earth do you mean?
James: Oh child, you wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain. You’d just call it my crazy Celtic mysticism. You’ll understand in due course. Look how late it is! The death fish will be spawning, and I need to go. Off you go to bed, and try not to worry.