The oppressive feel of the house — her house, it’s her house — can’t be solely attributed to the bitter cold. There’s a shadow in it that doesn’t seem to be concerning Morgana, confident that her father is simply in the next room,
and he is. Gwenaëlle is certain that he is. She can hear the weight of his step, and the rattle of his struggling breath in his chest, and when she thinks of going to him she feels as heavy as the dead. Her heart jolts into her throat at the sound of fists landing on increasingly brittle wood and she can’t reason herself out of the dread rising tight along her spine, the nape of her neck. This is her home. She’s safe here. There is no reason to feel this way, and she could go into the next room if she wanted to.
When she opens the door to Stephen, she stares at him for a moment, baffled in recognition.
“Stephen?”
— in the tone of a woman trying to understand why she knows his name.
no subject
and he is. Gwenaëlle is certain that he is. She can hear the weight of his step, and the rattle of his struggling breath in his chest, and when she thinks of going to him she feels as heavy as the dead. Her heart jolts into her throat at the sound of fists landing on increasingly brittle wood and she can’t reason herself out of the dread rising tight along her spine, the nape of her neck. This is her home. She’s safe here. There is no reason to feel this way, and she could go into the next room if she wanted to.
When she opens the door to Stephen, she stares at him for a moment, baffled in recognition.
“Stephen?”
— in the tone of a woman trying to understand why she knows his name.