The dark room was thick with tension, completely altering the quiet, peaceful atmosphere she had left only a short time ago.
Delaney could not see him clearly in the dim light of the dying fire, but she could hear his harsh, ragged breathing. She could feel the sudden, overwhelming wave of anger and panic radiating from the large bed.
"Rowan?" Delaney whispered, her voice trembling slightly in the dark.
He did not answer her immediately. He was breathing heavily, the sound scraping against the quiet walls.
Delaney turned away from the door. She went to the small wooden table resting near the wall. Her hands were shaking, but she quickly found the small box of matches. She struck one, the sudden, bright spark illuminating her face, and held the flame to the wick of an oil lamp.
The soft, warm orange-yellow light filled the room, chasing the deep shadows into the corners.
She turned around, holding the lamp securely by its brass base.
