Sarid de Vera Lonza couldn’t sleep again.
The room seemed suddenly too big and too cold, silence frightening her. Warning whispers in the back of her mind and the bad dreams, as usual when her husband was away…Nothing to do, just wait and hope, always hope for the best.
The tiny flame of the candle was almost gone. The last cut. Gazing at the wall Sarid counted the long hours of the night. Four.
She sighed, turning into herself as in a protective shell. Her long, slender hands extinguished the last flicker of light, then she rose and went to the window. She drew away the soft, white curtains and stared into the darkness. Her body yearned for some rest. But uneasiness, like a sharp blade between her and her own heart, kept her awake.
So cold it was, Sarid thought, with a shiver, even in the middle of summer. Cold was her soul crippled by anguish and waiting days and the so little love she had known…
Nights made her remember the worst things in her life. In daylight, it was easy to put them away and pretend happiness.
She sobbed, struggling to keep the tears at bay. No good shedding them. No deliverance from the fear that chilled her soul every time he was away...for the fire and rage she felt when he was close. Her husband, her men, yet not hers. Never so.
Taking a few steps around the room, Sarid finally sat on the bed, huddling under the covers. Nevertheless, coldness kept wrapping tightly around her shivering self.