Natasha Luepke - The Wolf Now Roams Among Fearless Lambs

As I try to wake Dun, we are covered in darkness once more; the moon has exchanged places with the sun and I think we are back in our time.
Dun opens her eyes and stares at me. “Who am I?”
I swallow. “You’re Dun, of course.”
“Dun of Course?” She stares at me, puzzled.
“No, no - just Dun. Dun? Iduna?” She shakes her head at each of my prompts. “Did you hit your head when you fainted?”
She rubs it, a little absent-mindedly it looks. “Did I faint? I don’t…remember. Anything.”
“C’mon,” I say, helping her up. “Let’s return to the kitchen and we can figure this out.”
She stops suddenly on our way up the gentle hill to the window in the wall.
“You - I remember you.”
“Really?” is all I can think of to say.
“You are Clover. And I love you.”
Inwardly, I sigh. “Do you remember anything else?”
She shakes her head. “There is nothing else to remember.”

It is nighttime still when we reach the courtyard. The castle is still decrepit; no one stirs, alive or dead. I’ll have to check Horatio’s journal, to see what changes are there… She burned the book.
My loom is sitting on the kitchen table; my bedroll is beside the fire. The “Buttercup” papers are still sitting on top of the table, beneath my pen and ink. I look closer: they are blank. All of Dun’s things are gone.
Ophelia lived. Dun hasn’t died. But she does not have much life left.
“Where are we?” Dun asks.
So Dun and I sit beside the fire, and I begin to explain everything.

The sun has risen when I finish. Dun still claims that she doesn’t remember anything; she claims she has no memories. There was nothing before she woke up on the hill.
“How do you know me, then?” I had asked.
She had shrugged. “Instinct, I suppose. How come I can speak?”
But she is asleep now, tucked into my blankets. I set out to gather more star wart - my voice needs a rest, anyway.
First, though, I return to the ladies’ chamber, where I had met the ghost.

The room is still covered in cobwebs, but the furniture has been rearranged. There are some new pieces, too, that must have been added later - this room had been in use longer, since Ophelia lived. There are some books in the room, now, too. I page through them, though all they contain are…pages.
This is the third book, a book of plays - I have found something! I slip out an old piece of paper, covered in Horatio’s now-familiar handwriting. Is it luck that I have found this paper so soon? Or fate?
The faint morning light has penetrated the room only a little, but still I can see.

“I don’t know who it was that saved Ophelia. The poor girl babbles on that it was a ghost. That is as good an explanation as any, I fear. I stared at Ophelia’s savior for a moment, and it left me feeling unsettled. There are rumors of mirrors that can show other worlds, that can show the truth, than can show the past. Looking at the - thing - that saved Ophelia, I felt as if I was looking at…not the past, not the future. I felt as if I was looking into a great chasm. I was terrified of falling in.

“The worst part of this thing, this ghost, was the air of familiarity about her. I felt that I should know her; her blue eyes looked like those of my mother.

“But none of that matters now. Ophelia has bouts of lucidity - I wonder sometimes if her madness is an act - and she has Hamlet’s guilt. These two factors have conspired against me: Ophelia has told Hamlet that it was not I that saved her, but a ghost, and Hamlet in his madness believes her. Now he will not even look at me, let alone speak to me. The word ‘betrayal’ hangs heavy over my head, I fear.

“I do not know what I should do.”

This is the end of Horatio’s narration. I flip the paper over - there is but one sentence, written in the ghost’s watery script: “I’ve let Horatio die.”
I carefully fold the paper up, tucking it into the folds of my dress. Dun doesn’t exist.
Now what do I do?

Dun still sleeping, I decide to resume weaving. No interruptions this time. I gather my loom and some water for softening star wart. I take a deep breath and rip my work from the loom.

It is late afternoon when Dun appears. I am sitting in the window in the wall; Dun leans over my lap to take in the view.
“I’ve lived here all of my life?” she asks.
I nod.
“Well, it’s pretty.” She smiles.
Dun is right, actually. The sun has appeared, dissipating the gray. The town looks…sweet.
Dun touches the small amount of fabric braided on the loom. “You can’t talk anymore, right?”
I nod.
She smiles. “Okay.” She watches me for a moment. “I’ll go check on your horse.” She pats me on the shoulder and leaves.
She seems awfully cheerful for someone who doesn’t exist.

That night, after dinner, I show Dun the piece of paper I’d found earlier.
~ This has been written by Horatio ~ I write.
She nods, already engrossed in what I have given her. She reads Ophelia’s single sentence as well, then places the paper on the table.
“So, Ophelia lived, and Horatio died, and I…didn’t die because I wasn’t born.” I cannot tell from her tone if this is a statement or a question. Dun stares at me. “Perhaps I can’t die?”
I shrug and hold up my hands: I don’t know.
She tugs on her braids. “Well, I’m still here. And you’re here. And I suppose that’s enough for now.” She smiles at me.

I think I have been here only a week. Maybe two. Not very long, though. I study the sun. Now how long I have been on the road, that I do not know.
But there is some sound, some noisy nuisance interrupting my thought. What is that? Horse shoes - the clip clop of horse hooves on the stone walk leading to the castle. I set my loom on the ground and walk to the center of the courtyard.
Dun is at my side as we wait. We could, I suppose, go out to meet the party, but that’s not as picturesque. Besides, I cannot speak and Dun has nothing to say.
Suddenly, a large crow appears.
“Clover!” he cries joyfully. He circles above our heads and then lands upon my left shoulder. I do not know if I should hug him or clap him on the back or…what. Instead, I just rub my cheek against his glossy feathers. He, of course, is chattering away. “I’d told you I’d return, yeah? And look what I’ve brought! How are your hands? Let me see them…” As I bring my fingers forward, he turns his head. “Dun! It’s good to see you, too. Been taking care of Clover?” She just stares at him quizzically.
The horse I had heard earlier appears now. The rider is - my brother. Deor.
“Clover!” Deor shouts as joyfully as Lir had. He dismounts, arms wide open. We embrace, crushing Lir in the process.
“Clover,” Deor continues, “we’ve missed you. I’ve missed you. It’s time to come home.”
I am smiling and crying now, quite a fool. My brother - my little brother! What kind of a sister am I? - searching for one brother, ignoring another.
“Lir has explained everything,” Deor is saying. “And we…think you should return to Avon. I want you to return.”
I grin. I’ll go back to Avon for now. I think, though, that one day I’ll return to Elsinore.
Dun wedges into herself into our circle.
“Clover, what’s going on?”
“You must be Dun,” Deor says slowly; I can tell he is thinking carefully about the correct words. He reaches out and hugs her, too. Has my brother always been so loving?
“I’m Clover’s brother. We’re going home.”
Dun smiles. “Take me with you.”
Deor looks at me. I nod.
“Let’s get your things,” Deor says.

I stand by Deor’s horse for a moment, watching my brother and Dun walk towards the kitchen. I pat the horse’s neck - a fine animal, white coat, mane, and tail. How appropriate.
“Are you okay, Clover?” Lir asks, still perched on my shoulder.
I nod and smile. I take the horse’s reigns and lead him to Richard’s stable.
“His name is Stanley,” Lir says, pointing his beak in the direction of the horse. Lir fidgets on my shoulder, raking his claws, scratching at newly healed skin.
“Avon wasn’t far,” he continues finally, as I continue taking care of Stanley. “So I went to visit Shallot, my princess on the glass mountain. She’s - she’s wonderful, Clover. Smart, funny, beautiful, all that, yeah? She’s as old as I am,” the last sentence said with awe. “She remembers things that other people don’t know ever existed.” He’s quiet as I finish with the horses. Finally, he says, “I thought you should know. This is an awfully strange world, yeah? Love at first sight, and nowhere to go from there.”
I pat his head. And then we head for the kitchen.

“Let me at least make lunch,” Dun is saying when we arrive. “And then we can leave. There’s not much to pack - it won’t take long. I…I don’t have a lot. I take care of Clover, and she shares what she has.”
Deor smiles when he sees me. “I was worried for a minute…”
Dun is already placing a pot on the fire; Lir is digging my shoulder with his claws: life is back to normal.
Lir leaves me for a moment, sailing through the still-open door. Deor follows me to the table. Deor looks at me for a moment - my throat, actually, and says, rather sadly, “It’s so strange to see you without Mother’s coin.”
I instinctively reach to the hollow space at my collarbone. Deor reaches into his vest pocket - in his plain, timeless pants/shirt/vest; with his hair grown out a bit, his resemblance to Wolf is striking - and removes the second coin, the mateless coin, the piece of metal now utterly alone, save for its faded ribbon.
“You should keep it,” he says, holding it out. “Lir explained what happened at King Wendell’s castle.”
I would protest if I could, say how I had nearly lost the coin, say that I had entrusted it to the care of a stranger, say how I was afraid I’d never see it nor Wolf again. But Deor insists so I cannot refuse.
I reach behind my neck to tie it, but the leather threaded through the holes is the original - it is old now; it shatters, just a little, brittle with age… I study the coin itself for a moment - some sovereign stamped on its surface, visage virtually vanished. I take the ribbon from my hair, the clover ribbon from Little Lamb Village, and use it to tie the coin.
I hold up a finger to my brother: Wait. I do a little searching through the clutter at the side of the room, where my gear is stored. Those papers with my mother’s name…I find them. But - but they are empty. They do not say “Elsinore,” they do not say “Buttercup.” Of course. No ghost ever taught my mother to read.
When I return to the table, Deor asks, “Are you okay?”
I nod. I sigh. What a puzzle to work out: Deor and I exist, so my mother existed…Was she still here, even if Horatio wasn’t?
Luckily, Lir returns. “Clover - wait, how long has the coin been around your neck? I thought…”
Deor chuckles and explains that it is his. Lir seems satisfied - I’m sure once, long ago, I explained the circumstances of my coin; I am sure of it. At least, I think I told him - must have used the story of my parents to hasten the hours on some long day or night or afternoon on the road…I wonder if that story is still true.
Dun interrupts us; her stew is ready. The bowls she gives us she pinched from the pantry - I can tell because there are remnants of a cobweb on mine. We are quiet as we eat. I feed bits of vegetable and meat to the crow on my shoulder.
“So Dun, tell me about yourself,” Deor says, repeating himself in translation so Lir can understand.
Dun looks into her bowl, as if bits of beef and pieces of parsnip can give her a quick history. “I can’t,” she says finally.
Deor cocks his head, looks at me, then back at Dun. “No? Where you born here?”
Dun swallows. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Lir asks. “Of course you were. You told us all sorts of things when we met you, right? Right?”
Dun shakes her head, helpless. “There’s nothing to tell you.”
Can avian eyes narrow? Can black feathers flush with anger? Lir spits at her, “Why you slimy little worm! You viper!” Lir spits at her, jumping from my shoulder to the table. “I trusted you with Clover and now - how do I know you haven’t tried to poison her or something? There could be poison in --”
I grab his beak with my hand, silencing him. Dun looks stricken. Deor looks to me. I release Lir’s beak, pick up my spoon and continue eating. Inwardly, I wince; grabbing that hard beak had driven the thorns deeper into my hand.
Deor and Dun follow my lead. Lir leaves the room.

Deor helps Dun with the dishes; she helps him pack. I leave them both so I can gather enough star wart to finish Lir’s shirt. He is sitting on the window in the wall when I arrive.
“I…I didn’t mean to lose my temper, yeah? But I worried; I worried the entire time I was away. That girl didn’t -- do -- anything, did she?”
I shake my head.
He drags his claws across the stone. “That she would lie…”
I touch him on the back and shake my head.
“She wasn’t lying?” he asks.
Same response from me.
“Well, she had to lie about something, right? Either she’s from here or she isn’t.”
I sigh.
“Too good to be true, she had to be.” Lir stretches his wings, ruffling the feathers. He scratches at the stones with a claw. “I shouldn’t have left you for so long. I stopped to see Shallot first, right? My princess… And that’s what took so long. I shouldn’t have…”
As he continues with his stream-of-conscious narrative, I think, I ponder, I consider: Suppose Lir had been quicker? There would still be a tormented ghost, but there would still be a complete Dun. I think, in nearly every way, everyone would have been better had Lir returned sooner. Now, what if he’d never left…?
I shake my head, shove Lir aside (he is in mid-sentence) and climb through the window.
“Wait!” he caws after me, following me down the hill. I pull out the plants, roots and all; he cuts stems with his beak. In it all goes, into one of my bags.

When Lir and I finish stuffing my bag with star wart, we return to the courtyard. Dun and Deor are with the horses.
“Let’s go home,” Deor says, sweeping his arm grandly.
“Can you ride?” Lir asks Dun.
She frowns for a moment. “I’m not sure.”
Deor looks at Lir, then shrugs. “Well, there’s only two horses anyway. Dun, you can ride with either me or Clover.”
“Clover,” she says with a smile.
Deor lends me and then Dun a hand as we mount Richard; he takes his place in Stanley’s saddle, Lir on the horses back - and - we’re going home!

Dun clings to me tightly as we pass through her former city. The sky is no longer gray, but a slight sun shines; the street is no longer so icy, though a little slippery. There are people in the street, now, and they seem happier than when I first entered the town.
“I remember what you told me,” she says softly, “but none of this looks familiar.”
At the very least, I suppose, I won’t have to worry about Dun growing homesick.

It feels…it feels good to be on the road again. To see a tree and know you’ll eventually pass it, to know that where you fall asleep will not be where you woke up. We are finally out of the Eighth Kingdom and are now into the woods.
When we pass the buttercups and clover on our way out of the kingdom, I point them out to my brother. He smiles.
When I was younger, I used to think about running off and becoming a gypsy. Did I think that? I know other children in my village did. Anyway… Gypsies hold such a strange position in society - hated, persecuted, and feared; parents would threaten to sell a naughty child to the gypsies; and unhappy children might threaten to run away to the gypsies.
That kind of life is appealing to me now. I think I would like to travel. I keep searching for family, keep searching for home; it’s always out of my grasp. But the road, to have my horse and my camp roll, to have that be all I need.
From the stories Lir has told me, and from what I have heard in general, I know Wolf stayed with some gypsies on his - quest. Journey. And they all ended up dead. Well, they also cursed Virginia. Real gypsies are not as powerful as the romantic idea. Or rather, they are more powerful, and that’s the problem.
“Isabella says ‘hello,’ of course,” Deor says, breaking my reverie on gypsies. Or joining it, perhaps. “Our table hasn’t been the same without you. And Henry cannot wait to see you again.”
I smile at that.
“Nice chap,” Lir comments.
After Deor has translated for her, Dun asks, “Who are these people?”
“Isabella is my wife,” Deor explains, “a most wonderful woman. And Henry is…” Deor looks to me, as if I can fill in.

Henry is hard to explain. I think about him - every day - but I push those thoughts away. It’s not that they’re unimportant, exactly, but they’re…distracting. I have things I have to do. Those things are done now, I suppose. But I miss Henry, and I love him. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I try to decide if it was a tavern in an inn or a troll attack that brought us together. And sometimes I think back to those days after the diverted invasion, and those days after it became clear we were all saved…Well.
Lir hops from Deor’s saddle to my shoulder and faces Dun. “Henry told me he loves Clover.”
Well, indeed.
Deor translates. “Love?” Dun whispers. Her grip around my waist becomes tighter.

Lir leaves me, stretching his wings and actually flying. Deor tells Dun about Avon. This takes up a lot of time actually, as Deor has to labor to find the correct words. I enjoy the snow - far more beautiful than Elsinore’s ice, and without the cold as well - and concentrate on controlling Richard. The sun is out too; really, it has not left us - Dun and me - since saving Ophelia.

We ride until nightfall. Deor insists that Avon is not much farther, but Dun asks for rest.
“Besides,” she says, “the three of us together, if we build a fire, we’ll be able to keep the wolves away.”
Deor and I stare at her. “What did she say?” Lir begs of us.
“Surely she knows,” Deor says to me.
I nod.
“Knows what?” Lir asks.
“That we are wolves.” Deor turns to me. “Maybe I didn’t translate that correctly?”
I shake my head.
Lir ruffles his fathers, lands on my shoulder and digs his claws in. “She knows. She knows Clover is a wolf. I told you, Deor, she took us in in the village and changed Clover’s clothes, yeah? She knows!”
“Dun, we are half-wolves,” Deor explains, not unkindly.
Dun leans forward, into my back. “You too, Clover?”
I nod and she jumps back, almost trying, I think, to figure out how to dismount.
“You never should have told her your real name,” Lir says.
Deor dismounts and reaches up to Dun, to help her down. “We won’t hurt you. Haven’t you heard of our brother, Wolf? He helped save the Nine Kingdoms.”
“No,” Dun says, letting him help her down. “No, I’ve never heard of Wolf.”
Deor looks up to me. I would shrug, but the new tears in my shoulder skin prevent me. He returns to Dun, who has crossed her arms across her chest. “Haven’t you heard about the Four? They saved the kingdoms from the trolls, from the Evil Queen.”
“I’ve never heard this,” Dun says apologetically. Of course she wouldn’t have.
I remove the bird from my shoulder and dismount. I put my hand on Deor’s shoulder and shake my head. Then I reach out to Dun.
“A wolf?” she asks again.
I nod.
She takes my hand; hers is shaking. “I still love you,” she says, and hugs me.

What we had thought, theorized, and feared: Humans are born with a fear of wolves. This makes sense, I suppose, but it makes our new position all the more precarious.

Dun helps me build a fire while Deor gets the ingredients for dinner ready. Lir sulks.
During the meal, Lir tells Deor more about our adventures together; this is done to deliberately keep Dun from the conversation. Lir speaks too fast for Deor to translate. I sigh; I am ready to hit him with the loom.
After dinner, I set up Dun in my bedroll and thankfully she falls asleep. I pull out the loom, although it is hard to weave in the inconsistent firelight.
“Clover,” Deor says, leaning in. “Do you know what is going on with Dun?”
I sigh, put down the loom and make a writing motion with my hands. My brother the reporter searches through his bags for pen and paper. As Deor does this, I motion for Lir to join us.
I muse about what to write, how to sum up the goings-on of Elsinore.
~ She doesn’t exist ~ I choose finally.
Deor looks back to Dun’s slumbering form. “Is she a ghost?”
I shake my head. ~ The victim of one. Or, well, a ghost was a victim of her family. ~
Deor shivers a little in the cold.
I stretch my stiff fingers. ~ When I can speak again, I will tell you everything. ~
Lir studies his claw marks in a stray patch of snow. “I hope so, Clover, I--”
He is interrupted by a noise behind us, a soft rustling. Only Dun, somewhat stirring from slumber.
“Clover? It’s late. Where are you going to sleep?” she asks, half-sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
I give a half-shrug.
“I don’t have an extra,” Deor says apologetically.
But it’s okay; when I was a child, we all shared a bed. It is beginning to snow, now.
~ Together ~ I write; the fingers are freezing, infected with frost.
So we huddle under our few blankets: two wolf cubs and one who is too cold to care she is but a lamb.

In the morning, we shake off our cold. I do not know where Lir spent the night, but he looks far warmer than any of us feel. The horses, I think, are glad to be moving.
“We should be back in Avon by tonight,” Deor says.
I think, Isabella, please bring me home this time.
“Well,” Dun says, “I cannot wait to see your home, Clover. Maybe it can be mine, too.”
If I could speak, I would say, No, Dun, it cannot be your home. I no longer think Avon is mine.
I look at ahead at my brother, who is conferring with Lir.
Dun, home is being with people you love.
I shake my head. How pedantic. Perhaps I will not say anything.
“Hey! Watch your hair!” Dun protests.
Inwardly, I chuckle.

The weather warms as we get farther south, just a little; the ice leaves our veins, if only a little. The scraggly, pale trees of the deadlands give way to the more vibrant, thick-trunked trees of the Fourth Kingdom. They are leafless, but you know they will live once more, these trees.
As I feel Dun shiver at my back, I see the first roofs of Avon, whitewash shining in the winter sun. It looks clean, inviting, much as it did when Deor and I arrived ten years ago, dusty and scared. My lungs clear, and I breathe easier than I have in months. I want to cry, or sing. My heart actually soars, as the cliché goes, lifted up by nervous, excited butterflies.
Is this place home? It will do for now.

The peaked roof of the mayor’s house is the dominant feature of the skyline. The sweet snow on its roof, and that of the library’s, makes me think of Hansel and Gretel, for only a moment. But for once, I realize, there is really nothing to fear.
“Almost there,” Deor says to Dun.
“It looks beautiful,” she murmurs.

The streets are bustling as we enter the town. Half-people (or is it half-animals?) smile to one another; tails wag gaily.
“A wolf…” Dun says softly, clutching my sleeve. “A fox.”
Isabella is waiting for us when we arrive at the post office. She embraces Deor after he dismounts, then turns to me. I am barely on the ground when she reaches for me.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” Isabella says in my ear.
After she releases me, she turns to Dun. “Welcome.” She squints for a moment, cocking her head to one side. Isabella places her hand on Dun’s right arm. “You’ve helped bring our Clover home, but you will take her away again.”
Dun looks to Deor, who translates for her. Lir settles himself on my shoulder.
“Does she always do that?” he asked, nodding towards Isabella. “She said I would cause both unity and separation.”
I smile and nod.
He thoughtfully drums his claws along my shoulder.

Isabella directs us with our luggage; she puts Dun and me upstairs. A small addition has been built behind the post office in my absence and that is now what she and Deor call home. It is not much larger than a gazebo, but it has a roof and sturdy walls.
The upstairs, though, is comforting in that it is still full of Isabella - her projects, her former Gypsy life. The colors leaping from the walls are a stark contrast to the pale ice of Elsinore, and Dun is transfixed.
“I never get tired of this room,” Lir whispers in my ear.
Our - my - gear stowed, the horses happy and resting, Deor disappears to the office, to see what he has missed and what has missed him. Lir leaves for his princess. Isabella offers me a spot by the hearth so I can weave and offers Dun a lesson in the language.

The hearth is bright; I pull up a small stool and get to work. Isabella and Dun stand behind the mail counter; I can only imagine them drawing letters on the back of undeliverable envelopes. Their chatter, though, the repeating of basic words, provides a comforting counterpoint to my internal “Ouch!”es.
The occasional postal patron enters, looking for letters, then coming to greet me like a long-lost friend; a bad way to get work done. Dun tries out her new words, showing them off like a new dress. When I smile at her, she smiles wider.

Towards the beginning of evening, just before the door opens I can smell something familiar - my familiar, something that belongs to me. Henry.
Not wasting how far I have come, I carefully place my loom on the floor. But that is all I can do; I am stuck to the seat.
“Clover,” he says softly.
“She does not speak,” Isabella says sadly.
Henry nods. When he is at my side, he takes my hand, inspecting the thorns embedded in the no-longer-so-tender-flesh. And the spell is broken, I jump to my feet and - it is more than a hug, the deepest degree of a hug; it is clinging. What have I missed? Was I silly to have gone searching for something that might never be? But I don’t think that’s true; I had to search, and so I did, and so I might again. But I am here now and -
Henry kisses me, quite thoroughly, and the butterflies, those nervous butterflies that had buoyed my heart earlier…now they hum, they sing.
We both try to catch our breaths, and I look across the room - and glimpse poor Dun. Dun does not look angry, though there is the air of the stricken about her. She does not look sad, but there is a bit of ash in her cheeks. Thoughtful, perhaps, is the right word.
Henry follows my gaze; taking my hand, we walk to the counter. Isabella facilitates the introductions since I cannot. Dun smiles bravely. I never thought I would break anyone’s heart.

I return to my weaving; Henry alternately watches, talks to me, and chats with Isabella and Dun. The thorns still prick my fingers, but the pain is not quite as bad when I can hear the voices of loved ones in the background.
Much later, Deor returns, and we all sit down to dinner. I have Dun on one side and Henry on the other, each fawning over me, in a sense, offering to cut my food if my fingers hurt too much, that sort of thing. It’s sweet, in an overbearing way.

When he leaves, I follow Henry onto the porch.
“I’ve really missed you, Clover,” he says. He takes my hand, studies it.

That night, Dun and I huddle beneath the covers - the upstairs is chilly and I wonder how Deor and Isabella endured it for so long.
“So that was Henry,” Dun says. I can just make out her bright blonde hair in the muted moonlight.
I nod and am glad that I cannot answer her, for I do not know what I would say.
We are on our sides, her back to me; I see her narrow shoulders rise sharply, as if suppressing a sob or a sigh. But she relaxes once more, turning her head slightly. “Clover, is there any way I can win you?”
She stares at me; in the chilled nighttime darkness, I can see her breath. “I’ll ask again when you can speak.” She turns back, and I am thankful that I can no longer see her face.
“I’ll always love you,” she says softly, almost as if she were repeating a mantra to herself.
As I start to drift off, I hear Dun’s sad voice once more, caught in her old Northern language that hinders her far more than my silence hinders me: “You’re my whole world, the only part of my past I can be sure of. And I’ll serve you until - the end.”
I have to do something. I pat her on the shoulder. How can her heart stand this? We will have a lot to discuss when I regain my voice.