Illian awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth.
She lay for a moment, considering this mystery. Usually the room's chill roused her, shivering, every morning. Perhaps Bigren had eased open the door and joined her for the night. She had yet to break the hound's habit.
Illian stretched out her hand, expecting to find the animal's bristly fur. Instead her fingers met warm, soft sheets.
She rubbed her cheeks and sat up, glancing around the dimly-lit room. Her trunk rested in the corner. As did another.
Her eyes widened as realization sent shivers down her spine.
Illian leapt out of bed, pulling on her linen undergarments and thick woolen overdress. The lacings up the back of her dress defied her fingers and Illian muttered under her breath.
Eomund could return at any moment.
She slipped into her fur-lined boots, threw her cloak around her shoulders and twisted up her hair, securing it with a savage thrust of the pin. Who knew what this day might hold—but whatever it was, it couldn't be pleasant.
Illian thrust open the door and hurried down the hallway toward the kitchens. With any luck Givir had made sweet rolls. She rounded the corner and shoved the swinging doors open, smacking into a hard body on the other side.
Eomund had an arm around her, steadying her, before she even realized it was him. She shied away and he released her.
"Good morning, milady."
Illian managed a nod, keeping her gaze on their fat baker laboring over a pile of dough on the counter. "Givir, did you make sweet rolls this morning?"
"Aye, that I did." He turned to her, beaming. "They be all gone by now, though."
"Oh." She sighed, tucking back up a wisp of hair gone awry.
Eomund silently handed her two of the rolls, wrapped in a soft towel.
He'd known they were her favorite and saved them for her. Illian stared down at the rolls, angry tears brimming. Why couldn't he act gruff or authoritative, like a husband was supposed to be; he was making this so much more difficult.
"Would you just stop?" She took the rolls, and turned toward the door—but not before she saw pain flash across Eomund's face.
"I received word from my scouts this morning," he said, his calm mask sliding back in place. "Wolves are again attacking the herds. The eored leaves within the hour."
Illian bit her lip. He hesitated, looking down at her, then nodded. "I will return in a fortnight."
Eomund strode out of the kitchen annex, through the back door that led to the stables. Illian sighed, walking back to her quarters.
She felt even more miserable.
Illian closed the door to her room—their room—and stared down at the rolls in her hand, a tear sliding down her cheek.
Eomund fought the urge to drive his fist through the slat-board wall of Driten's stall. It was a losing battle.
Instead he picked up the heavy leather saddle, hefting it onto the embroidered blanket on his horse's back. What had he done to make her hate him? He had been as gentle as he knew how.
Eomund pulled the saddle girth tight and winced. He had been afraid she would react this way, coping with her fear and grief by turning it into anger. He slid the bridle straps off his shoulder and over Driten's head, pressing the bit against the horse's teeth.
Perhaps she would be better adjusted by his return; he hoped so for both their sakes. He was flesh and blood—he would not just vanish with her wishful thoughts.
"All are ready, milord."
"Thank-you, Railf." Eomund lifted the stall door latch, pushing it open and leading Driten through. The animal's hooves thudded dully on the packed earth floor of the stable.
Railf's leather saddle and gear creaked as he shifted. "She will grow to accept you. In time."
Eomund tugged Driten's forelock, then moved to the horse's side and mounted. He gripped a handful of mane and reins, nudging the animal forward.
"Maybe," he said.