Valentine White Crow scratched through tangled hair and caught up the trailing edge of her nightrobe. Bed’s warmth clung. The bright-haired baby, half-asleep in the crook of her arm, nuzzled at her shoulder; and she put her free hand across the child’s back, nudging the sixth-floor bedroom door open with her foot. The sounds of Casaubon’s dressing came from the floor below. For the first time in five days, she focussed. "About, are you?" A dark head appeared in the stairwell: Abiathar with a tray. "This is late. Sorry. I’ve had a kitchen full of runagate mercenaries since five this morning." Snow-light spiked her puffy eyes. "Mercenaries?" "Wanting to talk to your husband." White Crow took the tray one-handed. A few rashers coiled on a tin plate, and a mug of half-warm tea slopped. Hunger suddenly growled in her gut. "What day is it?" "Wednesday." "I think I . . . slept a lot." She hitched her elbow, offering the baby, and the black-haired woman came forward and cradled the child in her arms.
What do You think about The Architecture Of Desire?
