Victor woke slowly.
For a moment he simply stared at the ceiling, gathering the pieces of where he was and why.
Then he turned and found the blanket. Draped carefully over him, tucked at the edges.
He sat up and looked across the room.
Elara was asleep in the opposite chair, her head resting against her hand, her breathing slow
and even. She’d come back. Sometime in the night, without a word to anyone, she’d come back
covered him, taken her place beside his father, and stayed.
She hates me, he thought, watching her. But she never hated him.
He’d known that, somewhere beneath the noise of Martin’s voice and his own momentary doubt.
He’d known it and had nearly let it slip from his grasp anyway.
He rose quietly, lifted his blanket, and crossed the room. He laid it over her with the
