Chapter 8

The Ashes

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"D e Vere was a close friend to my father," William said, "and my father's brother has said he gives good counsel."

Robert and William were in the gallery above the hall where a knot of men were gathered around a large and rough map of England spread out on a large table. These many lords were advising their king where it would be best to build fortifications around Wales. It had been William's suggestion that he and Robert observe it from a distance, not hiding but not participating unless they were asked. So they stood above and assessed the great lords and advisors assembled below. Robert tried not to think of it as gossip. It was useful, if he was to become one of them, to know who may be trusted. Having been raised in Lancaster's household, William was well acquainted with all of them, and was glad to share his opinions.

But it was no great insight to observe a fair amount of doubt in the boy when he spoke of de Vere, so Robert lowered his voice and asked the obvious question. "Think you that your uncle tells you wrong?"

"I do not think it malicious. In faith, I would be surprised if my uncle is capable of malicious intent." William gave a smile. His mother's smile, with a twist of mischief. "Richard is a fool."

"So you disbelieve him on principle."

"Nay, I have reason to think de Vere cannot be entirely trusted. My sister has told me he cares more for his own fortunes than he does his alliance with Ruardean." William nodded toward another of the men who stood around Edward in the hall below. "She has said Bohun, though, is a man who cannot conceal a thing, and I agree with her. Gwenllian likes him for it, even when what he fails to conceal is a contempt for her."

"Why would Bohun have contempt for your sister?"

William shrugged. "Whatever the reason, it is a personal mislike and not animosity for Ruardean."

Robert turned from the view of the hall, resting his back to the wall as he looked at William. "Your sister comes so regularly to court, then, that she has developed a distaste for the man?"

There was a little silence, and Robert had to resist a smile when he saw William's mouth go tight. Just like his mother.

"Gwenllian lived much removed at Ruardean until her marriage. She has only ever come to court once, in those few weeks when she was wed."

"And when she learned not to trust de Vere?" Robert asked. "And ran afoul of Bohun. A very busy few weeks."

William took a few moments before speaking, his eyes trained on the men below. He seemed to choose his words carefully.

"It was where she learned not to trust de Vere, because he did not warn her of the king's intent to arrange her marriage. Nor do I think she ran afoul of Bohun, whether at court or anywhere else." He looked up, his expression of uncertainty reminding Robert how young the boy was. "What has my mother told you of Gwenllian?"

"That she is married to Ranulf of Morency and has one son by him, another child to be born any minute." He shrugged. "That she loves her dearly."

"She has said that to you, that she loved Gwenllian dearly? Now, or long ago?"

It took every ounce of Robert's will not to widen his eyes in shock. "Long ago?"

"At Torver. In the year Montfort died at Evesham. Were you not there?" William was watching him closely. "My mother was there, and my sister. And you."

Robert nodded carefully. "Your mother told you we met there?"

The little tension dissolved with William's easy smile.

"Nay, I had it from one of Lancaster's men that you were there that summer. She has never spoken of you to me." His smile dimmed. "She does not speak of much to me at all. It is Gwenllian whom she held close to her heart, because my sister was kept at Ruardean to be reared while I have been in Lancaster's care almost as long as I can remember."

Robert was still recovering from the shock of hearing Torver mentioned, so he was less observant than he should have been. But he did not think there was envy in William's voice. Some disappointment, perhaps, and resignation. He wondered if the boy sensed what he did – that Eluned purposely held herself apart from him.

"Yet you seem to know your sister well, for all that you did not dwell at Ruardean," he remarked.

"She was faithful in sending word to me all the years I was with Lancaster, and when I would visit Ruardean she taught me..." Here his voice faltered, and he glanced back down to where Edward's counselors gestured over the map. "She understood better than I what it would mean to rule there, and she wished me to learn all I could of it. It is because of her I speak a ragged Welsh, and know all the men of the garrison, what skill in fighting each one has."

There was something he was not saying, and Robert could not guess at it. But as long as William was in a mood to speak of his sister, he could try to satisfy his curiosity on one point.

"When we arrived here and met with the king, your mother spoke an apology to him as greeting. Why?"

"She has a sharp tongue," said William with the ghost of a grin. "Or so I have heard. Nor was I there when she came to court to protest the betrothal and found Gwenllian already married, but they say she was in a temper that matched Edward's in his worst moments. I cannot imagine it."

"Can you not?" asked Robert in mild surprise. It was no strain on his imagination at all to picture it. It was almost a delight.

"I have ever seen her composed and controlled. But then, that is all she has ever shown me." William looked at him closely again, the assessing look that was uncomfortably reminiscent of his mother. "And now my sister tells me this composure is all she is shown as well, lately. It strikes a fear into Gwenllian, and hear me well: fear does not easily find a home in Gwenllian's breast. Dread is not in her nature, and it is a terrible wonder to me that she has admitted to it."

Robert thought of what Kit had said, that so much had changed for Eluned in the last twelvemonth. Three years ago she had stood before the king and railed at him, yet three weeks ago she had abased herself before him, not a flicker of spirit in her. Hers were the movements and words of one who accepted an absolute defeat. He had seen it in men before, when they suffered definitive loss in battle. It was rare enough in his experience, and he had never seen it in a woman. But then, he had never known a woman who had had such fire as Eluned.

William's eyes were on him, and uneasiness came off the boy in waves. Robert thought of telling him that Eluned was not always so composed, that there were moments when she smiled even though he knew she did not intend to, moments where he saw her breath catch. Most often it was when he came to their rooms in the evenings. For weeks now, he would enter to find her sitting among the velvet-covered cushions where she would stay all night. There was no cool composure in the way her breath sped up when he stood near her, in the way she studiously avoided his eyes. It was the same ebb and flow of attraction and resistance between them as it had been at Torver, the same delicate dance but without the playfulness.

Every night he lay in bed, wondering if she would come to him, and wondering why she did not. My favorite sin , she had said, when she thought him asleep. And then she told him to let her go.

He looked at her son and knew he was not alone in thinking it was more than an icy self-control. There was something she hid, something that even her son could not uncover.

"There was more to her anger than a marriage contract," he said to William, whose mind was so like his mother's, yet whose openness was anything but. "You think there is more that happened between my wife, her daughter, and the king. That is what you hint at?"

"Aye, I think there is more. If it will affect Ruardean and my rule there, then I would know it."

"If it would affect your rule and Ruardean, your mother would tell you." There was no question in Robert's mind. Even if she did not adore William in the way she had Gwenllian, she would never let harm come to her son. He believed in that more than he believed in her long-dead love for him, more than he believed in his own ill-advised love for her. "She is loyal to you, William. She married me only because you asked it of her."

"You think she married you for me?" William looked at him for a long moment, his brows raised in a gentle incredulity. The idea seemed to amuse him, but he did not dispute it. Instead he turned back to look at the assembly of men below, directing his attention there. "Anyone can conceal their true feelings when they feel they must. It would amaze you, the enormity of the secrets that can be hidden at this court. It is too easy to trust a man who plots in secret against you."

Robert looked down to see who William was watching now. It was Mortimer, moving a block of wood that was meant to represent a fortress, pushing it further westward on the map.

"Mortimer does not have my trust, I assure you," he told William, who shook his head in reply.

"Roger Mortimer should not be your concern. This hostage he holds – is the boy so dear to you?"

Robert nodded warily. Though it was no secret, he had never spoken to William of his concern for Kit's son and did not know where he could have learned of it. Court gossips had better things to whisper about, surely. "He is as close to a son as I have ever had."

"As am I, through your marriage, though I cannot call you father." William gave him a happy smile again. He looked back down at Mortimer and said, "Have you never wondered why the Mortimers came to mistrust your friend Manton?"

There was a suggestion under his words that Robert did not like. "If you think to set a suspicion in me against Kit–"

"Not him. That is not my intent, I am clumsy in my words." His grimace of embarrassment reminded Robert that he was still a boy, if only just barely. "I mean only that there was no reason for them to demand a hostage, nor less to keep him. If a neighboring lord, a man whose holdings and strength were not one tenth of mine, came armed and unannounced onto my lands I would not do as Mortimer did. Very well, you will say, I am not like a Mortimer. But I have known a great many of the most powerful barons and have been taught the ways of a great many more, and I tell you that none would ask for an heir as surety unless there was reason to fear the worst."

"They have said they act out of caution. Too much of it, to be sure–"

"They are guided by reason, and I ask myself who would tell them they have reason to suspect Christopher Manton."

Though his immediate reaction was skepticism, Robert did not say that it seemed unlikely. In William's face was a seriousness and intelligence that told him he would be a fool to dismiss this. And after all, the boy knew more than he about the people surrounding Mortimer, and their likeliest schemes.

"Why do you tell me this?" Robert asked him, curious. "I think you do not often share such private suspicions, and it can mean little to you what Mortimer thinks of Kit Manton."

William gave a slight shrug. "I am a Marcher lord and you will become one. The others, these men," he gestured to the tableau of lords gathered around the king, "They are a pack of starving dogs, loyal to their own hunger above all else. But your marriage to my mother unites our lands, our fortunes, our strength. And so I mean to help you as I would expect you to aid me if ever I am in need. I will rely on it." He looked at Robert, serious. "Look you to learn who would warn Mortimer against your friend, and why. Someone has whispered poison in his ear."

"To what end?"

"That is for you to discover." William turned to leave, then paused after a step. "Your brother is the kind of man who might know such a thing."

T wo days later, they watched as William made his oath to the king after the Christmas mass. Robert said a prayer they could soon leave this court. He was not made for the whispers and the shadows, as Simon was. Even William, young as he was, managed to strike a perfect balance between artful and guileless. It was a skill that Robert had no interest in mastering.

But he did want the reward Edward would give him. And he could see this was the best place to learn why the Mortimers kept Kit's son as surety. He had not told Kit of his conversation with William, preferring to keep his own counsel until he discovered something more concrete than suspicions. The days passed and he watched as Kit became more friendly with Roger Mortimer, the two of them comparing the charms of every passing serving girl while Robert crawled into his bed alone.

He missed France. He missed days long gone, when he would spend his time laughing with Kit and his son, riding out into the vineyard where he knew every inch of the land, and telling himself that somewhere Eluned was thinking of him. What a flattering illusion he had created for himself. He felt the loss of it keenly.

"Isabella has said her brother reconsiders the conditions under which they took the hostage," Eluned told him the day after Christmas. "Is clear to me they begin to feel shame for it, now they see Kit Manton means them no ill."

"Have you wondered why they ever thought him an enemy?"

He was careful to ask it in an offhanded way. He had not confided in her about this yet, for reasons he could not name. It was partly that she did not confide in him, over anything, and partly that he did not wish to tell her all the things her son had said. Mostly it was that he was afraid his eagerness to be close to her would push her further away again. In some moments, they were almost like old friends. But she seemed to him as a wild and wary animal – one step wrong, one noise too loud, and she would retreat to a place he could not follow.

"I have asked her," she said, folding a square of golden cloth carefully and handing it to one of her ladies with instructions to take it to the queen. "But she says only that they knew little of him when he brought an armed party onto their land, so it was natural to call him enemy."

"And they did not think it out of proportion to demand a hostage."

Her mouth grew tight and he heard contempt in her words. "They are capable of such malice and deceit that they expect it of others in kind."

That was all. It might be enlightening to see her speak to her son on the subject. If ever he found the two of them together for more than a bare instant, perhaps he would steer the conversation that way. Maybe even tonight, when Eluned would join in the holiday celebration and William was sure to be there too.

But when they arrived in the hall, the wine was already flowing and William was dancing with the king's daughter. Robert heard his name called, bellowing and boisterous, and saw it was Kit.

"Is a joyous start to this Twelvetide season," Kit proclaimed as he thrust his cup into Robert's hand and swept Eluned into his embrace.

He watched as his friend swung her around, laughing, and dropped her to her feet before him. She stepped back, flustered, her mouth open in surprise at this extravagant gesture, her eyes flicking to Robert in alarm. Kit's face was flushed but he seemed steady on his feet as he put his hands to Eluned's shoulders and said, "I shall have my son home, and it is all your doing, lady. I would kiss you, were your husband not a jealous man."

"They have sent him home?" she asked, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"They will. Roger Mortimer has told me only minutes ago, that his brother will see Robin home to my wife in time to celebrate the Epiphany. I will go myself tomorrow so that I may see him safe delivered with my own eyes." He smiled broadly at Robert, who saw the relief in him at this news. "Praise God I believed you when you said we must listen to your wife."

"Nay, it is none of my doing," said Eluned, a warm smile spreading across her face. "Anyone may give advice, but few could turn an enemy to friend so quickly."

Robert found himself laughing, his heart light for the first time since he had left France. They sat at a table laden with food, music in the air, the wine from his own estate in every cup, and joined in the celebration. To prove Kit wrong about his jealous nature, he urged his friend and his wife to dance together while he sat and watched and was mad with jealousy. Tonight she wore her hair in the fashion popular at court, abandoning the veil for a simple barbette and fillet with her braid pinned in a coil at her nape. The dance was lively, though, and the braid came half-free to trail down her back and swing with her movements.

He prepared to abandon his drink and his place at the table so that he could go to them, cut in and take her hand, touch her and laugh with her as easily as his friend did. But he turned to find Roger Mortimer there, waylaying him with praise for the wine. They sat together, and were joined by Kit and Eluned in time.

"This one," said Mortimer, nodding at Kit, "tells me he will send his son to squire with you in another year or two. But I have told him the boy has a rare talent with the sword, enough that he may be better served at Morency."

All eyes fell to Eluned, who wore a pleasant but guarded smile.

"Gladly will I ask my daughter if her husband would take the boy as squire." She looked to Kit. "I cannot say if there will be a place for him there, though, as I am sure there will ever be in my husband's household." At these last words she put her hand to Robert's arm, and he was reminded of how her fingers had curled around his wrist when she stood before the king.

"I had not thought to send him so far," began Kit thoughtfully.

"You know little of Morency if you think the distance should be your only concern," said Mortimer, who smiled into his cup. He flicked a glance at Eluned before saying. "Your boy is like to come back with all the skill you could want and more arrogance than you can stomach, with Ranulf of Morency to teach him."

Eluned raised a hand lightly to her mouth, turning her head aside, hiding her smile. After a moment, though, she nodded her head as her shoulders shook with laughter.

Roger Mortimer gave a booming laugh when he saw her agreement. "I like the man well enough, but his head is so swelled it is a wonder he can find a helm to cover it."

While the men laughed, Robert looked to see she had grown suddenly sober. All her mirth was gone, replaced with unease. He put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm, felt her fingers flex in reaction, and wished he knew even one thing that was in her mind.

The night went on with her quiet reserve back in place while the rest of them laughed and sang and danced. She was too obviously troubled, and he was not surprised when she excused herself from the revels.

He made his excuses and followed her within the hour. It seemed likely the merriment in the hall would go on long through the night, and though he shared Kit's happiness at the good news, he did not share his friend's growing fondness for Roger Mortimer. Loud and brash and boastful, it was rich indeed that Mortimer dared to call another man too arrogant.

Robert had come to anticipate with pleasure the first moment of entering their rooms at night. It was always quiet, with a tension that was not anger, and he could pretend to himself for a moment that this was the night she would be waiting for him in the bed. She never was, though. Tonight, like all the other nights, she sat among the pillows in her heavy night robe. She had pulled the tapestry aside a little, so that she could see a sliver of night sky through the window.

This time, for the first time, she looked up at him as he entered. There was not an invitation in her face as she gazed at him. He did not know what it was, but he thought she did not want him to leave her alone as he usually did. Careful of the lamp on the nearby table, he came to where she sat and eased himself down on the seat next to her. She moved herself slightly to make room for him, her hand on the psalter she held open on her lap.

"Do I interrupt your prayer?" he asked her.

She shook her head slightly, running a finger along the edge of the page.

"I was not praying. I looked for a verse I heard once, but I think it is not here. It is scripture, though I cannot say where I heard it."

"What is it? None would call me an overly pious man, but haps I have heard it too."

She closed the little book and rested her palm on it, and spoke to the jeweled cover. "I was poured out like milk, and then curdled like cheese." The words in her mouth sounded almost wistful, though her lips were set in a grim line. Then she shrugged her shoulders, a little gesture that tried to say it was unimportant. "The words were like that."

He put his hand over hers where it rested on the book, careful to move slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she did not, he felt hope leap up in him. "What lays so heavy on your mind, cariad?"

This is where she would turn cold and distant. He waited for it, cursing himself in the little silence for calling her his love. But she did not turn cold. She pressed her lips together in something between a grimace and a smile, and she laid her other hand over his.

"Cariad," she said, her eyes large in her face as she looked at him. "No one has called me that since you. I cannot remember..." She faltered, looking down at her hands on his, and spoke in a whisper. "In some moments I can scarce believe I was ever that person you loved."

Only her mood stopped him from the wry remark that his mind threw up like a spiked defense. He would not be angry at her, not when the word cariad was in her mouth and she held his hand. Not when she spoke of the past without scorn.

"You were that person," he told her, turning his palm up against hers, curving his fingers around her hand. "You are. I see her in you still."

"Do you?" Her mouth lifted in a sad semblance of a smile. "I do not see her at all."

He waited a long moment, remembering her laughter and dancing earlier tonight, remembering all the little moments in the last weeks when she had let down her guard and he had glimpsed the Eluned of old. He did not speak until she looked up at him.

"When you are not sure of the answer to a question of great importance, do you still look into the sky?" It startled a little laugh from her, and she nodded. He pulled the cloth away from the window next to them, letting in the light from a full moon. "As do I. I learned it from you. You said it was good to remember how vast is the universe, and how many possibilities there are that we can only guess at."

She looked up at the night sky, and her face in the moonlight deprived him of words for a long minute. He had seen many women whose comeliness could stop his breath, many who were more beautiful by far, but no woman he had ever known could match the sight of Eluned as she turned her eyes up to the stars.

"Will you tell me more?" The Welsh lilt was more pronounced, turning her voice to music, her words drifting to him like a sweet sad song. "Tell me what I was. I cannot remember."

He spoke slowly, twining his fingers with hers. "The girl I knew was daring and bold. At times her temper ran ahead of her reason, but her wits would always save her. She could charm anyone at all if she remembered to try, but she had no talent for hiding her impatience with fools – and so she rarely tried to charm a fool." He watched a smile dimple her cheek. "She looked very much like you, her face was the same despite the many years. Except that every last hair of your head was dark – and your skin was more pale, I think, or else your mouth more red."

She let out a breath of a laugh, wrinkling her nose in amusement. "Neither. I used to hold crushed berries to my lips to color them, when I knew I would see you."

"Did you really?" he laughed.

"Yes, and I would bathe my face in milk, and brush my hair for hours on end." She pushed the psalter off her lap and, one hand still entwined with his, pulled her feet up onto the seat between them. She tucked her legs beneath the heavy robe, relaxed and natural. "I remember your kindness. Do you remember when that boy saw us, and you ran after him? I thought it was to frighten him into silence, because that was my instinct. But you gave him all the food you had, and some coins, and you asked him to forget he had seen me at all." She looked up at him, all trace of amusement gone. "My artifice and your kindness. Haps we have not changed so very much."

He shook his head. "Nay, I will not let you say you were all cunning and calculation, though I loved that part of you as well as any other. It was that part of you which left the little stone for me, to tell me you would slip away to be with me. I would never have had you otherwise."

His words put heat in the air between them, the reminder of those naked afternoons together. It flared up amid the comfortable warmth, turning the reminiscence of friends into the awareness of lovers.

Her eyes stayed fixed on their clasped hands. "What if that is the only part of me that lives still?"

If he had not wondered the same thing, he would not have a ready answer. "Never could your fire give way entirely to cold calculation. And there was such a fire in you, Eluned, that I have never seen its like." He leaned closer, pulled their joined hands to his heart. "I would swear on my life it burns still."

She looked at her fingers in his, pressed lightly to his chest. "Aye, it has burned and burned. Until I am left with naught but ashes."

She gave the barest shake of her head, silencing whatever he might say. Her hand rose to his face, fingertips stroking the hair from his temple and drifting down to touch his mouth. He could not think how to answer her. He could hardly breathe when she was this near, when she touched him and he was aware of her body beneath the robe every instant.

"Robin," she said, so soft that he strained to hear it. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. "It was only with you that she lived, that girl. These many years, she has been a dream no one else remembered."

He slid his hand up beneath her heavy braid, holding her to him. "I remember. You are no dream."

Her skin glowed with moonlight, yet he could almost feel the sun of a lost summer on his shoulders. He was a nervous boy again, amazed that she had come to him, terrified she would pull away. "Will you kiss me, Eluned?"

She made a mournful sound, a choking laugh of recognition as her fingers spread into his hair. "I will." And her lips were a tentative flutter on his for only a breath, before her tongue was hot in his mouth.

The effect was instant. He had forgotten. That was the only coherent thought as he kissed her. He had forgotten the wildness, the melting, the utter obliteration of everything that was not her. He drank her in and she went to his head, the strongest wine he had ever tasted. How could he have forgotten? It was a blaze that would consume him, and he wanted nothing more. He wanted nothing else. There was nothing else in the world but her mouth, her arms around him to pull herself nearer, her hands low on his back, urging him.

He found his feet, his mouth still on hers, pulling her up with him to stand. The tie that held her robe closed – could it be so simple? One little pull on it, and the heavy cloth came open and fell to the floor at a push. There was only a thin shift beneath, so thin he could see the outline of her breasts beneath the loose fabric. Her mouth was at his throat, hungry and hot, her breath against his skin. He wanted all of her, all at once – every inch of her body and every sigh, every scent, every taste. He went to his knees, sliding down her body to open his mouth over her breast. She inhaled sharply, cradling his head against her, as he tasted her through the linen. It slid over her skin, wet and dragging against the hardened nipple beneath his tongue.

"Robin." It was a gasp, high-pitched and sweet, a voice he remembered. He took his mouth away and looked up at her face in the flickering lamplight. Her lips swollen with kisses, her hair coming free, desire in every feature. This was Eluned. This. Not a cold, untouchable statue of a woman dressed in rich clothes, but a reckless and greedy wanton who gasped his name.

He rose, carrying her shift up with him to bare her legs to his touch. Her hands came to his belt, resting on the stiff leather for a bare instant before pulling it through the buckle and dropping it to the floor. She took his tunic in her hands, gathering it in bunches to pull over his head and he said, "The bed. I would have you in a bed." He had used to dream of it, when they lay together on the grass.

He carried her there now, at last, finally. His only regret was the darkness, no way to see her away from the lamplight. But there would be time, he told himself as he hastily removed the last of his clothes and bent over her. She was his now. There would be no more hiding away, no stolen hours. In darkness, daylight, and firelight, she was his and he was free to find the tender skin of her inner thigh, to rake his teeth along the softness and hear the keening sound she made. He thrust his tongue into her heat, his hands sliding under to grip her and hold her up to his mouth like a ripe fruit.

The taste of her, the sounds she made and the feel of her under his tongue reminded him. He knew her, what she liked and how she wanted it. He came up, stretching himself over her, pulling her leg up high over his hip. There was a moment, suspended above her, when he was unsure. There was only blackness, he could see nothing of her at all. She was all sensation, and he could only feel her absolute stillness beneath him. But then her hands were on his belly, moving downward until she found him and guided him into her.

He moved in her, his mouth open on hers, both of them panting, reaching. He forced himself to focus on her, exerting a ruthless self-control, following her every reaction, every cue. He could feel her struggling, fighting against release or fighting for it, he could not be sure. He gripped her leg, pulled her knee up and held it as he shoved himself deep. "There," she gasped, a harsh inhalation at his ear. "There, don't stop." He drove on, her breath hot on his neck as she clenched around him, her voice rising higher while he lost all thought, all control, her body arching up to his as he let go, let everything flow into her.

He was only dimly aware, as he sank down onto her, that she was still moving. His arms came up, dead weight obeying his slow brain, but they did not close around her. She was slipping away, sliding from beneath him. It was only later – minutes that felt like hours – that he realized she was gone. Gone from the bed, gone from the room, not a sign of her in the blackness that surrounded him.

Delight and dismay pulsed through him as he gradually comprehended it. For a moment he thought he heard her in the outer room, but then he was sure she was gone. He gulped air, felt his sweat turn cold in the frigid night air.

His hand closed around her discarded shift, the only outward sign she had been in his bed. He pulled it to him, knowing himself a pathetic, lovesick fool but unable to stop himself. She had been here, with him. She had called him Robin and took him inside her, all flame and passion, every inch of her alive.

And then she left him.

He gripped the fabric of her abandoned shift, a bellow of rage and confusion strangling him. He would have loosed it into the night, but his fingers found a hard little lump among the cloth. If he had not run his fingertips across it every day for eighteen years, he would not have known it in the dark. It was the button from her shoe. The button he had handed to her on their wedding night. She had sewn it into her shift. Just below the collar on the inside, where it would rest against her heart.

He curled himself around it in the blackness, a tangle of hope and despair twisting inside him through the long hours of the night. Alone. Clinging to the evidence that he meant something to her, even if it was something she fled from, and abandoned.