Younger, more stubborn, more selfish, he might have fought her. Flinched away from that touch, shoved to his feet and paced to the edge of the cliff to show how displeased he was. And he is displeased, because he's gotten spoiled, having her here with him, waking up with her every morning, or at least waking and knowing that she's somewhere nearby, that all he has to do is climb out of bed to find her at the table, or out in the vegetable patch, or fetching water from the well, or crawled up to the loft to lay with the children awhile before the day starts properly--all this domesticity, comfortable as the sweater of he's she's wearing--and now someone's putting holes in it, stretching it out, ruining what they've built.

Darras looks down at the ground. He doesn't shy away from her hand.

"Three days," he says, eventually. "I'll have everything here prepared in three days. And you'll bring back the news of what we're up against. Where are you thinking we'd go?" The boat he takes out to fish with is pulled up to the boathouse. The one in the cove is different, lither, not large enough to go out across the sea but large enough for the four of them, and Rosana, sleeping the days away as she does now. It will be seaworthy by tomorrow's sunrise. He'll make sure of it.