Chapter Twenty Eight
Two pale, composed faces, framed in night–black hair spread out over white pillows. Eyes shut, breathing steady and slow. One lay alone in her narrow infirmary bed; upon the torso of the other rested a small bundle of grey fur, curled into a sleeping ball.
Aysun had scarcely looked on any other image in days. He had placed a chair between the two beds in which lay his wife and his daughter. Hour after hour he sat there, gazing first upon Ynara’s face and then upon Llandry, so like her mother and yet so different also. The signs he craved never came: no quickening breath announced a wakening from slumber, no flutter of the eyelashes, no slight movement of hands or fingers. They remained still as statues, white as marble.
Pensould sat on the other side of the room, by
