I woke to grey light and an empty half of the bed.
She was at the window in the cedar-smelling guest robe, a dark shape against the paling sky, looking out over the sea of cloud. The cold coming off the warded glass had frosted the inside edge of the frame where her hand rested. She didn't turn when I sat up, but she knew I was awake. She always does.
I got up, crossed the warm stone floor, and stood behind her with my hands on her shoulders. She leaned back against me. She was cold through the robe, and she let me be warm for her.
"The elders were still arguing when I left the feast," she said quietly. "About what to call it."
"Call what?"
"Your art. My uncle is suggesting 'The Art of Quiet Truths.'"
"He always did like a title," I said, my chin on the top of her head.
