Chapter 23
Thunder, all around, no light, no air, the ship jarring, shuddering, crashing. Rhys gripped the end board of the bunk, his other arm wrapped around Siân. It’ll pass, he told himself, over and over, jaw clenched, teeth chattering. It’s a squall. Nothing more. No worse than the last. Or the one before. At least he had Siân. He told himself that too. Not like Alf Bustle, whose wife laboured behind closed doors.
Rhys hadn’t heard the older man return to his bunk. But he must be down there somewhere. Either that, or he’d stayed crouched outside the hospital door. That’s what Rhys would do if they took Siân away. Never mind that people glimpsed his fear. He was nothing without Siân. Nothing. Rhys’s arm tightened about her. She cupped his face in her hands.
‘Heddwch! Rhys.’
Peace?
