It was here that she had discovered her brothers, here that she had discovered the love she felt for her father despite his harshness, and here that she had discovered herself for what she was.Imogen. Daughter of Cymbeline. Wife of Posthumus Leonatus, the man her father had first adopted and then, because of the illicit marriage, banished. All had for a time been reunited and reconciled, but Posthumus and Cymbeline had never known the truth of it all.The cave was cold, and water ran from its walls. She gathered long grasses and made out of them a bed on which she lay each night listening to the Welsh wind swirl around the mountain, reminding her of her age. As the grasses rotted, the bed became more comfortable, but at last they began to stink, so she threw them out of the cave and gathered more. Winter was coming, and soon she would have to find some other form of bedding.In the daytimes she often looked at her hands, seeing the liver-spots and the creases. She had never intended to live this long.She had never intended to do most of the things she had done during her life.Each day Imogen lit a fire, sparking flints over dry leaves and then adding kindling and finally dead branches foraged yesterday.
