Sleepy Fox Hollow shadows that lift off the bloom and the velvet

Even in sleep, Wylla knew she had no right to steal comfort in the form of Mahler. Every vitriolic word aimed for his heart in these past months, every unkind thought, every accusation — all these things meant she had no right to his warmth and care. She hardly deserved to be saved from the cruel and drawn out death that had awaited her, let alone all the rest.

She slept fitfully, now and again attempting to pull away from him, only to find herself back against him, often by her own doing. It was cold without him next to her. Now and again, loathing whispers in her mind would tell her that he was taking advantage of her vulnerability. Others reminded her that she was taking advantage of his duty to his patients. It all made for a restless night, and a hopelessly guilty conscience.

But when Wylla woke in the morning, it wasn't due to guilt, but the strong iron scent of organs in front of her face. Whuhthefuh, the mumbled as she came to, groggy and stiff and with pain radiating out from her shoulder. Mahler's voice in her ear made her jump a little, sent a cascade of ripples down her spine that made her hackles flutter, and then he was up and gone, leaving her with the organs and her sun-washed daughter, who had never looked so beautiful and whose mother owed a thousand apologies.

Wylla's jaws cracked with the force of her yawn, and then she made her best effort to look hale and healthy as possible (despite the wretched way she still felt) when she asked, when did you get so good at that?