The day after Rosethorn died, Lark sat by her bed watching her breathe. Holding tight to the other woman's hand, Lark stared at the chest rising and falling as if the miracle would end if she looked away, even for a moment.
She had been sure she would lose the woman she loved, Lark realized now. Oh, she would have fought it. She did fight it, running to Summersea planning to do anything she needed to for the help Rosie had to have. But when she had come back to the deathly silent cottage, she hadn't been surprised.
Coming apart at the seams, yes, but not surprised.
And even though their children had done the impossible, she still feels like she's a piece of knitting that caught on something sharp and had unravelled before anyone had managed to catch hold. It would take time before she was put back together again, Lark knew. Leaning forward, Lark rested her head on Rosie's chest and closed her eyes.
Feeling each of Rosethorn's breaths and every heartbeat, Lark began repairing herself.
