By night, they are like children, set loose in a garden of delights, the darkest hours turned into a playground of the senses, a festival, a ball. They dance. They drink. They dream. And in the morning, Sabine pulls Charlotte down into the sheets and whispers poetry against her skin, lines about midnight soil and soft red petals and sharp white teeth. And every time, Charlotte drifts off surrounded by the scent of her lover. Like damp earth and dry bark. And in the circle of her arms, she feels safe. She feels home.
