It was reluctantly, and with aching muscles, that Zhiraunfastened her heavy grey dress and pulled it over her head. She pulled a worn black shirt out from the back and fastened it over her shift. The sporadic beat of rain echoed from the front of the cave. The sky was merciless. She worried about Rhyode being cold and felt the heat rising in her face and neck again. What would Vesta think of her? Nothing; there was nothing to see, nothing to think. She hadn’t asked to be hugged. But she had liked it. Zhira felt like a traitor to herself, to Vesta. She had enjoyed the feeling of being held securely.
She liked the idea that, perhaps, Rhyode might think of her as more than someone he needed to keep his distance from, an inconvenience.
‘Can you make a fire?’ Vesta asked.
Her thoughts fle
