15
She’d cried, and cried, and cried some more. And even now, when she felt empty and hollowed with grief, tears still sprang all too easily to her weary eyes.
Gwen stared bleakly up at the ceiling of her familiar bedroom, watching sunlight and shadow dance through the sheer white lace of her filmy curtains. Her left palm itched, and instinctively she scratched at the thick padded bandage covering it. She had indeed dug her nails right through the skin in her effort to hide her grief. And what good had it done?
Winston had been buried with full honors three days ago at his ancestral home outside of York, England. The liturgy had been long and full of pomp. He would have hated it. But his last living sister, Honoria, had insisted—and Gwen just hadn’t been able to muster enough strength t
