What Rowan Doesn't Say
The bed was empty when she woke at half past two.
Not cold. The warmth was still there, recent and particular, the way warmth belongs to a specific person and not just to a body in general. She lay still and listened. The house was quiet in the way it was always quiet at this hour, deeply, architecturally, as though the walls themselves had settled into sleep. No footsteps. No voice. No sounds from the study at the end of the hall.
She got up.
He was in the kitchen, sitting at the island in the dark. No lights on except the low ambient glow that came from the city through the tall windows, painting everything in shades of grey and pale orange. He had a glass of water in front of him and his hands around it and he was looking at nothing in particular, or
