She woke to candlelight and the smell of paint.
He was up again—the sheets were cold and empty, and the window cracked. Ever mindful of her preferences to the fresh air, it seemed, despite his own qualms about icy floorboards and bare feet.
I'll keep you warm, she had murmured, and he'd laughed lightly, as if it were one thing he wouldn't have minded then.
I wouldn't doubt that.
At one time, it would have been simply a reflex to wrinkle her nose and sink back under the covers, hide away from the artist and his recollection of expressions and the dim, growing, saturnine glow from the corner of the room in her shrinking haven of warmth and coziness.
At one time, before the war, it would have been easy to sleep alone, too.
"Forde," she said softly, and it was enough. To speak. To whisper. "Aren't you cold?" she asked, and mutely, he turned his head to glance at her.
The nightmare was clear in his eyes. It was always the same image, and on canvas, he never got past more than an outline. Tonight, the brush in his hand glistened darkly, and for once Syrene had to swallow.
Wordlessly, she stretched out her finger-tips, an offering of peace on her mind—and she liked to think, when she finally drew him in and beyond the chill, that she was offering something only they together could share in.