Chapter 18Theo woke to the sound of rain and the sensation of Henry folded around him, against his back, as if attempting to shield him from harm. A heap of blankets and sheets lay heavy across their bodies, a thick comfort; Henry’d wanted him to be warm.
The fire in their bedroom’s fireplace burned low and scarlet, small flames and embers; it was magical but fighting the cold. The rug, curled upon the floor, was still the rug he remembered. The tapestries were the ones he’d chosen, not terribly expensive but richly colored against old grey stone.
Theo gazed at lines and patterns for a moment. Gold, bronze, indigo, sapphire. Familiar, like the heat of Henry’s body. And yet not: this particular moment, this morning, had never happened before, and never would again.
The sense of prescienc
