Emmae woke slowly. Through the fog of sleep came a beloved, angular face; desire rushed through her, edged in an ominous way. She reached out her hand. "Warin?"
"Not quite," said the face. "Hildin." He seized her hand in a hard grip.
The drowsy fog cleared away; she sat up, and pushed herself to the top of the bed. Stone covered in tapestries replaced the daub walls of the cottage; feathers filled the mattress she sat on, not reeds; and a fire in a generous hearth warmed the room. Her clothes hung in rags from her arms. She pulled them close with her free hand against her chilled skin. "Where am I? Take me home! I want to go home, take me home right now!"Read the rest of this post