Monday: Even with the wind lapping at his ears, he would know and cherish her voice to his dying breath. Dying breath. He shuddered. “Mariel?”
Tuesday: He shivered to know that she could read his soul. He sought to change the subject, hoping even spirits could be distracted.
Wednesday: Alric nodded. Mariel had always paid stricter attention at church than he. "But the grave." How did one speak tactfully to the dead of the tragic, but permanent, loss of their bodies? "What--um--am I to bury there?"
Thursday: Before he could stop himself he tilted his head, as though seeking the comfort of her familiar, forgiving palm against his cheek. His skin met with empty air. Of course. Her hand withdrew to lie against what he imagined to be her breast.
Friday: “Forgive me. Jealousy is one of the sins for which I burn. But you are free of me now, Alric. If you wish to love another woman, I will not chide you for it.”
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