But last night, she’d spun and spun her magic into thread. Into every delicate petal, every leaf and thistle, she’d woven a small piece of her heart. Regret at having broken his trust. Anger at his sharp withdrawal. The pain of losing him. The fear upon seeing him within his cage of thorns. The warm, languid peace of watching him tend his plants. The lightness of teasing him. The contentment of sewing as he breathed steadily beside her. The quiet intimacy of a rainstorm, lying side by side as the breeze sighed through the open window. The comforting sadness as they gave their burdens to each
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