She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. He hated horizons. Enough to let her find out a piece of information most urgent. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time.
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