Nevan
I don't know how long I stayed on my knees.
Long enough for the light in the corridor to shift. Long enough for my tears to soak through her chemise and cool against her skin. Long enough for the trembling in my arms to quiet and the roaring in my head to settle into something I could breathe around, if only barely.
Rosamund's fingers moved through my hair in slow, steady strokes, and I pressed my face against the warmth of her stomach and let myself exist inside a truth I hadn't dared to imagine.
A child. Our child. Growing inside her while I'd been planning my own funeral.
Eventually, she tugged gently at my hair and murmured, "Nevan, get up. The floor is cold, and your knees must be aching."
They were.
