The temple bells ring midnight services. The deep chimes echo through her dreams, and Rosethorn flinches, a whole-body spasm that disrupts unsettled swirls of dreamtime. Faded images of plants bursting too-quickly into harsh and thriving life dissipate, resolving instead into the darkness of her bedroom, into the smells of herbs she grew and gathered herself, hanging to dry in the exposed rafters. There is no light, but it’s late summer, and the windows are open, allowing the reflections of moonlight and starlight to glimmer on glass jars and vials.
Rosethorn fixes her eyes on the window, where a bed of herbs sits, sleeping through the night. The faint breeze brings the ocean’s scent to her nose, and one primal part of her brain relaxes. Brine was not the stone of mountains and the dust of war. The garden outside, dormant as it was without the sun, was hers, and a quiet touch with green magic told her that it was doing just fine. Rosethorn let out her breath, slowly, the way the mind-healers told her to, and then sat up.
She was almost certain that Evvy was also awake; the girl had at least as many nightmares as Rosethorn herself did, but Luvo would ground her again. The friendship there was something to be grateful for, even if Rosethorn didn’t understand precisely why the heart of a mountain had decided to mentor Evvy. But that was not a midnight matter, Rosethorn told herself. She sighed, and pulled on a light robe, wrapping it protectively around herself. She still served Winding Circle and Discipline Cottage, but sometimes she wished she could do so from outside its walls for a while.
Quietly, Rosethorn left her room and entered the next one over. One of Evvy’s cats — she couldn’t tell which, in the dark — watched her, but didn’t make any move to follow. Lark had left her door open, just a crack; Rosethorn stepped over a line of thread and then closed the door completely, holding the chimes strung on the door still — the noise wasn’t necessary to wake Lark when she’d set gentle wards, both to alert her to a human’s presence and to keep out the cats.
Lark’s room was lit only by moonlight filtering through the windows. Silver-limned cloth — scarves, hangings, embroidery, cross-stitch — hung on the walls and from the ceiling. The rich colors Lark used in her craftings were muted, turned silver-dark by the moon. The overall effect was comforting; the familiar one step sideways in the night, but still known even then.
“Rosie?” Lark’s voice was muffled and sleepy.
Rosethorn smiled. “Bad dreams,” she said, before Lark could ask more.
Lark pushed herself up onto one arm. Her hair tumbled around her ears and into her face, and Lark didn’t brush it away. “Come here, then.”
Rosethorn closed her eyes for a moment and nodded. A tension in the back of her heart faded, and breathing came yet more easily. She knelt next to Lark’s bed, though, not yet entering it, just feeling the warm hum of Lark’s magic woven through every single piece of fabric (and there were many, even at summer’s end) on her bed.
“Rosie...” Lark laid a hand on Rosethorn’s shoulder, curling her fingers ever so slightly around Rosethorn’s neck. “Comfort is easier on a mattress than on the floor.”
“I know.” Rosethorn let her forehead rest on the mattress’ edge.
Lark’s sigh was soft and fond. Her fingers stretched just a little further, until she tugged firmly at Rosethorn’s neck. “Come here, Rosie.”
Rosethorn followed the insistent pull of Lark’s fingers, just like the threads she usually stitched into their proper place, until she sat on Lark’s bed. The softness was better, she had to admit, and the quiet spellcraft worked into the bedclothes whispered sleep at her. Still, she hesitated.
“If you insist on sitting where pillows go, instead of using them...” Lark’s teeth flashed in a smile, and then she laid her head on Rosethorn’s lap.
“You’re not making it easy to move,” Rosethorn pointed out. She began running her hands through Lark’s hair, letting the dark curls stretch out and then fall back into their usual sleep-caused near-tangle. Lark nuzzled closer, and Rosethorn closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the patterns of meditation. Her hands kept moving on their own, the motions automatic after so much time.
When her breathing settled and her eyes felt heavy from sleep, she murmured, “Lark?”
There was no response, just slow, deep breathing.
Rosethorn smiled, and gently shifted Lark’s head from her lap to the pillows. At Lark’s still-sleeping protest, she made shushing noises, and curled around Lark, pressing her face into the nape of Lark’s neck. Lark moved closer, sighing contentment.
In the safety and warmth, Rosethorn closed her eyes and matched her breathing to Lark’s. The transition from waking to sleep was so smooth she didn’t even notice it, and she didn’t dream.
Morning broke with birdsong. Rosethorn woke, as she always did, at the sounds of birds and plants welcoming the sun. Sometime during the night, she’d turned over, and Lark’s arms wrapped around her, keeping her firmly pinned even though they were loose, simply because it felt so good to be in loving arms.
Rosethorn didn’t fall back asleep; she just closed her eyes and listened.
It took less time than she expected for Lark to stir, but longer than she expected to hear the sounds of children waking. She was almost certain that Evvy’s cats woke her, and very certain that Little Bear — and thus Glaki — woke once any other person was awake. Comas heard, she was sure, but didn’t emerge as immediately as the others, spurred by animals, did upon waking.
“You should do this more,” Lark murmured in her ear, breaking Rosethorn’s contemplation of the current other residents of Discipline.
Rosethorn winced a little, and turned onto her back so that she could see Lark’s face. “It isn’t every night anymore,” she offered.
“Yes, and we’re all very grateful that it’s only most nights now.” Lark kissed Rosethorn’s forehead. “Dear, it does help you.”
“I know.”
Rosethorn didn’t say the other things they both knew: That sleeping with Lark only helped sometimes, and was much more consistently helpful for returning to sleep then keeping her from waking. That it was better, some days, if Rosethorn’s sleep was constantly interrupted, for Lark to have slept the whole night through. That there wasn’t truly any solution but patience and letting Rosethorn’s mind relearn healing and safety in time.
Lark draped herself across Rosethorn, settling her hands on Rosethorn’s breastbone and her chin on her hands. “I don’t mind.”
“And you like this part,” Rosethorn added. She brushed Lark’s hair out of her face. “I do too.”
Lark smiled. “So we’re agreed. You’ll stop feeling bad about joining me here, even if you won’t always come.”
Rosethorn laughed, despite Lark’s weight on her chest, because that weight was a warmth and infinitely lighter than the one she had carried in her heart since Gyongxe. Even if that one wasn’t gone, the pall could be lifted, and Lark’s presence was a balm.
“Yes,” Rosethorn said, smiling. She leaned up, and Lark moved forward, so that she could kiss her, and when she pulled back she said, “We’re agreed.”