She woke at gone ten, by which time Arlo had been awake for an hour. He had been watching her for the best part of half an hour. The worst part of half an hour had been on waking, when a sense of dread had swept over him in a dark wave. He had lain beside Petra, not daring to turn or look. He'd kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling which, in the Old Stables, provided ample dinks and cracks conducive to ruminating. As much as his heart surged, his stomach plummeted. For every thundering beat of his heart proclaiming love and lots of it, his conscience hammered back that Love could only mean one thing. And just in case Arlo feigned not to know the meaning of love, his memory charged in to remind him.But all it had taken was a tiny sleep-sigh from Petra. Despite the noise of the conflict raging inside him, one perfectly timed little whisper of her breath had lured him around. He turned to her, gazed at her, and for the best part of half an hour he fed upon the peace and loveliness from her repose until the emptiness and negativity had been washed away and a full tank of hope and happiness replaced it.
