Ren's little breakdown had vanished and he offered to carry Aoibh to her bedroom.
"It's almost morning," she giggled. She was wrapped in a robe, slippers hanging from her crumpled toes.
"But you're exhausted," he said, pecking her cheek. "Sleep. I'll wake you when a wedding host has been found."
She lifted her hand, caressed his wet, silky hair. Once upon a time, a long time ago, her hair had been healthy and bouncy, but now, it was a dried haystack cutting into her shoulders and skull.
"I want you to stay with me," she said.
Her voice quavered, but he didn't question it. He stood between two rooms. Her door had hinges and opened like European doors, but his was like the majority of them in this complex. An ornate wooden frame with a paper covering that slid open.
He said, "Will you join me in my bed?"
"Your bed is so hard. You still sleep on that wooden slab?"
His laughter was twice what hers was and he finally choked out, "I'm asking you to couple with me."
"Oh," she said. Then she said, "Oh!" Because then she knew what he meant.
September 17, 1990
An older memory came to Mary, one so old it was fragmented and distant.
March 31, 1379
"Mother!" Yuemu yelled.
The old woman had little resemblance to Yueme, fiery red hair, some grays woven through, but hers was forced into a bun, not a hair free from its restraints. The woman was also sturdy and broad. Her forehead was heavy. Even though the Mhor Clan said they didn't know who Bronagh's father was, her bulky muscles marked her as ogre. She was not the scrawny broomstick that Yuemu was.
Dear Ren spoke Irish and his expression soured. Aoibh clung to him and sobbed.
"He's a little boy, Mother."
YOU ARE READING
The Lamb and the Gray Battle
FantasyEvie has spent the last 575 years on the North American continent, now called America, the Pure and Clean. She smiles, volunteers and makes cakes and pastries for her neighbors, hiding away her demon blood. She wants nothing to do with her estranged...
