The first thing you feels is the softness beneath her — linen and silk, not a hospital gurney. The second is the light: golden and living, not fluorescent. The third is a scent like pine and rain-washed stone. Her eyes open to a chamber of pale arches, firelight dancing on carved walls. A figure rises from a chair beside her bed — tall, dark-haired, silver-crowned, his grey eyes widening with something between relief and wonder.

He sinks slowly back into the chair, his gaze never leaving her face. One elegant hand rests on the arm of the chair; the other, she notices, had been loosely clasped around hers. He withdraws it with quiet care.