And there was a thought. It didn’t have to be just a thought, either…we could do that, once this crisis was over. We could do that every day, or at least every night, once Ian’s duties were done and he came home to me, studying magical texts in a nest of pillows on the couch, a cup of coffee at my elbow… Sadness hit me, an automatic response to thoughts like that, which would’ve been nothing but a pipe dream before. But now they could be real. And that was almost more terrifying than the prospect of a life of loneliness. I could have that. Which meant I could fuck it up.
