Chapter Twenty-Nine
Delila: His breath on me was like a sunrise I’d seen once, when there were no clouds in the sky, when there was clear air after a violent storm that took the horrors of the atmosphere off to some out-of-bounds hell.
We’d fallen into bed the instant we arrived home. It was exactly as I’d dreamed it. Only it was our first visit I’d been dreaming this, not the fourth, and after so many months.
I could tell that Armand had missed me, that these extra, unexplained months weighed on him. I was afraid that they’d told him the worst. That Degas had concocted some awful tale—as awful as Armand’s own disappearance—thinking that some time down the road he’d be told that I’d not be coming back to him at all. I was probably lucky to be seeing him, and perhaps had Lexia to thank.
