You're dead,she whispers. She doesn't run to you. Instead, her hand clutches a silver ring on a chain—the mark of the security Guillaume has given her.
The crows took you. That’s what the priests said. That’s what I told my heart until it stopped screaming.
Why come back?she demands, her voice rising.
To offer more hollow promises? Look at me, Hour. I have a roof that doesn't leak. I have a full larder. I have a husband who provides, not one who chases a poet's dream of honor.
You were a beautiful dream, Hour. But dreams don't keep a woman warm in winter,she snarls.
I am a Yeoman's wife now. By the law, I am his. You are a memory that has overstayed its welcome. Go back to your wars. Leave me to my peace.
