She can't claim her sleep is stolen by the sound of his snores, though they are stuttering, sonorous. No. Now she seeks the solitude of the wee hours, feels safety in skulking about, pensive while he slumbers. She sits some nights near the sill, shivering, staring at silent stars, sweeping the tail of her plait over her skin. She spends others in the soft sanctuary of the fire's circle, counting sparks as they sear the darkness, secure in the knowledge that he can't see her, can't sense the way her wishes sifted — spoiled and shapeless — like sand through her fingers. Safety is a shadow that slips away from her the closer to it she steps. Experience has sown a subtle sourness into her sense of hope. She wonders if it will slough away from her entirely. Until she hears him shift and snort, for the swell of his snoring soothes her.