Wheeling Gull Isle healing prayers

"oh, there's — so much more." her sigh was a puff of air from a deadened tomb. "those are just the main points," she joked, searching for any tendril of humour she could use to extricate herself.
bartholomew was warm beside her. it occurred to heda that maybe since childhood no one had made contact with her so consistently. since coming to the island they had run and hunted and slept close, to the point where the solidity of his figure was something she had come to fear would be taken from her.
she fidgeted next to him. there was frustration. there was relief. she felt empty, as though she had exposed a huge weakness and now bartholomew could see the extent of her cowardice. 
she couldn't speak her mother's name. she couldn't tell him that she heard druid retching and crying in the dreams of every night. she could hardly get any of these words out. "i keep wondering what's wrong with me," and the tears started to come again, and she spoke in the same still small voice. "you know, like what i did to d —" oh, but she did deserve it. she'd never come back to rivenwood to see what had happened. she'd turned her back on druid's begging. she had moved miles and days away from anything she knew. and it hadn't been enough.
at last heda sagged against bartholomew, exhausted and wrung out, her crying hoarse this time.