Even so, the corners of her lips lifted of their own accord.
Ever since that night in the hotel, the air between them felt as if it had been quietly replaced with something new.
There was no deliberate intimacy, no fervent declarations, yet every glance, every brush of contact carried a warmth that was hard to put into words.
It didn't burn like strong liquor down the throat, nor blaze like a raging fire, but was more like a cup of warm water slowly handed over on a winter's day.
Silently, without a sound, it flowed into her heart, melting the ice that had piled up there bit by bit, until she unknowingly sank into this tenderness.
At year's end in Varden, it snowed with unusual diligence.
When she woke in the early morning, the world outside the window was already a sheet of white; branches wore frosty blossoms, rooftops lay under thick blankets of snow, even the air seemed clean and piercingly crisp.
