Hana walked into the room first, its homeliness wrapping around her like an embrace. Old fashioned leather sofas sat at angles in the wide space, crowded around an open fire. Ash decorated the grate as though the occupants sat there recently. “My parents use this room as a lounge when they finish work,” Logan said, his fingers caressing the back of a worn sofa. “We used it as a family room after kuia died, but it was her bedroom before that.” His eyes strayed to a battle scene above the fireplace. Half n***d Māori warriors battled English soldiers, their te rākau bats futile against guns. Despite the awfulness of the depiction, it held a grace which contrasted the sense of futility.
“It’s nice.” The words sounded pathetic and Hana sank onto one of the sofas. Exhaustion beat her back again
