Memory
It was the cold that woke Yelena. She opened eyes gritty from crying herself to sleep and saw that the shutters had blown open on one of the windows, letting in the silvery moonlight and a drift of white flakes, the snow too fine to linger, melting away into tears on the blankets the moment that they landed.
Her breath hung on the air as mist. The fire had died down to embers, and barely heated the large nursery chamber.
She never barred the shutters, but she knew that she had closed them. Which meant…
“Sylvin?” She sat up.
There was blood on the windowsill, and she could smell the sharp metallic bite of it.
The moonlight caught in the bright silver of his hair. It had been braided back, but strands had pulled free and floated, gossamer fine, as he poured water into the washbowl from the jug. The shadows dragged across his face, the monotone of night hinting at the man he was yet to become.